Buku Tales of the Quintana Roo by James Tiptree Jr
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Tales of the Quintana Roo by James Tiptree Jr

Author:James Tiptree, Jr. [TIPTREE, JAMES JR.]

Language: eng

Format: epub

Tags: Science Fiction

ISBN: 9781473203211

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Published: 2020-12-30T16:00:00+00:00

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Tales of the Quintana Roo by James Tiptree Jr

A lust death-born, unsated,

Calls from a poisoned bed;

Where monsters half-created

 

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Tales of the Quintana Roo by James Tiptree Jr

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Tales of the Quintana Roo by James Tiptree Jr

 

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Tales of the Quintana Roo by James Tiptree Jr

Author:James Tiptree, Jr. [TIPTREE, JAMES JR.] , Date: July 4, 2019

,Views: 41

Author:James Tiptree, Jr. [TIPTREE, JAMES JR.]

Language: eng

Format: epub

Tags: Science Fiction

ISBN: 9781473203211

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Published: 2020-12-30T16:00:00+00:00
A lust death-born, unsated,

Calls from a poisoned bed;

Where monsters half-created

Writhe, unliving and undead.

None know for what they’re fated,

None know on what they’ve fed.

Beyond the Dead Reef

My informant was, of course, spectacularly unreliable.

The only character reference I have for him comes from the intangible nuances of a small restaurant—owner’s remarks, and the only confirmation of his tale lies in the fact that an illiterate fishing-guide appears to believe it. If I were to recount all the reasons why no sane mind should take it seriously, we could never begin. So I will only report the fact that today I found myself shuddering with terror when a perfectly innocent sheet of seaworn plastic came slithering over my snorkelling-reef, as dozens have done for years—and get on with the story.

I met him one evening this December at the Cozumel Buzo, on my first annual supply trip. As usual, the Buzo’s outer rooms were jammed with tourist divers and their retinues and gear. That’s standard. El Buzo means, roughly, The Diving, and the Buzo is their place. Marcial’s big sign in the window reads “DIVVERS UELCOME! BRING YR FISH WE COK WITH CAR. FIRST DRINK FREE!”

Until he went in for the “Divvers,” Marcial’s had been a small quiet place where certain delicacies like stone-crab could be at least semi-legally obtained. Now he did a roaring trade in snappers and groupers cooked to order at outrageous fees, with a flourishing sideline in fresh fish sales to the neighbourhood each morning.

The “roaring” was quite literal. I threaded my way through a crush of burly giants and giantesses of all degrees of nakedness, hairiness, age, proficiency, and inebriation—all eager to share their experiences and plans in voices powered by scuba-deafened ears and Marcial’s free drink, beneath which the sound-system could scarcely be heard at full blast. (Marcial’s only real expense lay in first-drink liquor so strong that few could recall whether what they ultimately ate bore any resemblance to what they had given him to cook.) Only a handful were sitting down yet, and the amount of gear underfoot and on the walls would have stocked three sports shops. This was not mere exhibitionism; on an island chronically short of washers, valves, and other spare parts the diver who lets his gear out of his sight is apt to find it missing in some vital.

I paused to allow a young lady to complete her massage of the neck of a youth across the aisle who was deep in talk with three others, and had time to notice the extraordinary number of heavy spear-guns racked about. Oklahomans, I judged, or perhaps South Florida. But then I caught clipped New England from the centre group. Too bad; the killing mania seems to be spreading yearly, and the armament growing ever more menacing and efficient. When I inspected their platters, however, I saw the usual array of lavishly garnished lobsters and common fish. At least they had not yet discovered what to eat.

The mermaiden blocking me completed her task—unthanked—and I continued on my way in the little inner sanctum Marcial keeps for his old clientele.

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