《贵族们的游戏》读后感锦集
《贵族们的游戏》是一本由洛伊斯.比约德(美)著作，四川科学技术出版社出版的平装图书，本书定价：18.00元，页数：307，特精心从网络上整理的一些读者的读后感，希望对大家能有帮助。
《贵族们的游戏》精选点评：
●在译文版上看的
●相比中国的玄幻小说复杂的剧情，这个还真是简单..
●平……
●是这本书把我拉进了洛伊斯的迈尔斯系列，成熟的剧情，机智的文字，不愧为雨果奖获奖作品
●叙事很有法国小说的感觉。节奏稍微快了一些，字里行间的小幽默也值得认真体会。译文做到了通晓，但语感还是差了点，习惯就好。
●断断续续看了很久，前面的情节乱七八糟的不吸引人，后面的情节非常好，很快读完了后面的部分。2012.5.19
●没有什么感觉。
●这个系列的第一本。大爱。
●剧情紧凑，意料之内也稍有惊喜，适合周末午觉后喝茶时伴读。
●这个系列都8错~
《贵族们的游戏》读后感(一)：第一本迈尔斯系列的书
最早这本书是在科幻世界杂志译文版上读到的，长大以后原先的杂志已经找不到了，重新买来单行本看。严格来讲，这本书并不是迈尔斯系列中最好的一本，最好的是《明争暗斗》，但是这本书对前因后果交代的比较清楚，适合作为迈尔斯系列的第一本入手书来看。
比约德女士在序言中也说了：“不需要按照某种排序读这套书，只要从手边有的开始读就行。”
迈尔斯系列是好故事。
《贵族们的游戏》读后感(二)：The beginning of the end
总体来说，这本书是迈尔斯军事生涯的开端,同时也是格雷格皇帝真正掌权的开端。若是写一个迈尔斯个人的编年史，这是很重要的一年。
这本书的情节很精彩，但是在读的过程中，却总是觉得迈尔斯的未来暗流涌动。尤其是卡罗维对迈尔斯今后的预言，他对格雷格的忠诚不会为他换来任何东西，让人隐隐不安。
迈尔斯和格雷格的追求是不同的，迈尔斯追求的是别人的认同，而格雷格追求的是权力，无论是对自己命运的主宰还是对贝拉亚帝国的权力。在这系列小说中，关于格雷格的情节很少，可是在少有的情节中却两次写了格雷格为了权力无视情感背叛其他人。如果说背叛趁人之危利用他的卡罗维有情可原，那么背叛迈尔斯的父亲，他的养父，阿罗弗科西根就实在让人费解。这不禁让人联想，是否有一天格雷格也会因为某种无法抗拒的原因背叛迈尔斯呢？我个人希望不会，可是卡维罗的预言已经在这个系列较后面的一本书中初见端倪，那本书是个转折点，之后只需几个甚至是一个故事，就会迎来这个系列的大结局，迈尔斯一生结局，也会最终揭晓。
贵族们的游戏，也就是权力的游戏。到了最后，谁会是真正的赢家呢？
《贵族们的游戏》读后感(三)：迈尔斯——一个小个子将军
迈尔斯·内史密斯·弗·科西根是银河系一个落后帝国贝拉亚的首相唯一的儿子，他们的帝国还是皇权统治，皇帝是他的表兄。在皇帝没有子嗣的时候，他本来是皇位第一顺位继承人，但是没人指望他继承皇位，一来他的表兄十分出色，二来因为他是个身体畸形的家伙，而身体畸形是贝拉亚最忌讳的事情。他的父亲是阿罗·弗·科西根伯爵，他的母亲是思想开放的贝塔人，在还没出生的时候遭到父亲政敌的毒气袭击，可怜的迈尔斯人生的第一个考验就是能不能降生，他的DNA没有被破坏，但是骨骼像玻璃一样脆，他驼背，无数的骨折还使双腿还不一样长，紊乱的代谢功能使他苍白瘦小。也许他应该躲在小屋子里，忍受嘲笑愤世嫉俗。但是，他是科西根人，他是天生的贵族，他的父亲母亲花了数倍的精力培养他，他尽了一切努力提高自己的体力，上帝给他最大的补偿是他遗传到了无比聪明的头脑。但是17岁的迈尔斯，只想成为一名帝国士兵，这源于家族传统，但他更想这样来证明自己，证明自己配的上是阿罗·弗·科西根伯爵的儿子，是科西根家的传人。在体力测试中，他义无返顾从障碍上跳下，但是他的腿骨没那么听话，他骨折了，失败了。但是上帝为他打开了另一扇门，也许是他自己打开的。他在去贝塔旅行的途中揽到一笔运军火生意，糟糕的是遇到了敌方的雇佣军，但是他在一次一次交易，谈判，战斗中，成了受人爱戴雇佣军的总司令，他的家学传统使他成为天生的领导，但是代价是胃出血差点要了他的命。他第一次尝到了指挥的乐趣，当然他痛恨伤亡。贝拉亚帝国为了防止他再胡作非为，把他收编入军队。这个小个中尉那里是那么好打发的，他成了贝拉亚的特工，在外是登达利雇佣军的将军，周旋于银河联邦和其他力量中间，实现利益最大化。《迈尔斯》系列就是这位小个子畸形将军的冒险史，也是他寻找自我的历程。
迈尔斯系列的经典语录
考验是一种礼物，巨大的考验就是巨大的礼物。
勇敢是我们的救命稻草。
只要条件许可，你就能够给人以自由，是不是那是你自己想要的东西？
当他没有了退路，他需要一个更好的计划。
任何战斗计划在同敌人第一次接触后都得修改。
我们的身体是我们的主人，而我们是囚犯。
在某个年龄你必须自己学会一些东西，没有选择你就往前就是了。
中年是比当前老十岁时候的年龄，不论你又多大，中年没有个定数。
任何事情只要值得做就值得做好。
我们试试看吧，看看会出现什么结果。
要是你不能做你想做的，就做你能做的，或者尽自己所能去做。
我不必重复他的错误，我可以制造全新的错误。
如果我不能做我想做的一切，我至少应该做我能做的。
在实战中不存在任何作战计划。
任何成就都是生物学意义的。
在实际中应用政治手腕，它应该和战争中应用策略一样，都是家族遗传给你的天性。
人总是很快就能习惯奇怪的口味。
战略的第一原则：永不放弃任何优势。
只要你还在呼吸，就永远不会太晚。
这就是恐怖，这就是书上那些目击者说的疯狂的恐怖，我现在理解了。我再不可能像懵懂无知时那么喜欢他了。
由军需官导致的输赢要比总参谋部引发的输赢多的多。
英雄们，他们像野草一样在他周围疯狂长起来，作为一名播种者，他似乎已经无法控制住传播的势头。
永远不要放弃心理上的优势
每个人都得去做自己必须做的事情，要么成长起来，要么沉沦下去。
名誉是别人对你的看法，容易使你对自己的看法
最让人失落的情形是：你看着荣誉在自己脚下化为齑粉，而你在公众心目中的崇高声望却又以各种各样奖赏的方式绑缚着你，让你无法动弹。这种情形会摧毁你的灵魂，而相反的情形智慧让人非常、非常生气而已。
迈尔斯·内史密斯·弗·科西根 阿罗·弗·科西根
伊凡·弗·帕特利尔 爱丽思
格雷格·弗· 塞格王子 凯琳公主
伊冯·弗·哈拉斯
迪莉亚·库德尔卡
弗·帕拉迪斯
埃雷娜·伯沙瑞
埃莉·奎因
巴兹·杰萨克
陶娜
贝拉亚 沃巴萨塔那 贝塔 瑟格亚
埃斯科巴
西塔甘达
杰克逊联邦 巴罗普乔王朝 瑞瓦尔王朝 费尔王朝
《贵族们的游戏》读后感(四)：【转】wolfgang：看完了《贵族们的游戏》
http://bbs.ustc.edu.cn/cgi/bbscon？bn=PopSciFic&fn=M413A70D9&num=1107
这个中文名跟《安德的游戏》真是冲得厉害，
可是The Vor Game就没有那种冲突的感觉。
叶李华90年（91年？）拿台湾大奖的那篇短篇
就叫《戏》，英文出来居然也是The Game。
真得很像金庸小说，读科幻到现在，最像金庸小说的，
主角当然是像韦小宝。和金庸小说比，缺乏可爱的
小女生。也许在其他部之中会出现，但是金庸小说里
可爱的小女生一部都不能少的。
武侠版这两天正在重跳万年老坑，讨论哪个武功名称最好听。
科幻版上似乎从没讨论过哪种宇宙兵器的名字最好，
毕竟太少了。郑军的科幻迷自测题上居然要求听过他的课的
同学（自测题是郑军开过的一个课程的结业试题）举出12种
“常见的宇宙兵器”，我投降。但是，我这里多少也积累了一
些不太常见的名字。最土的名字我推OSC的“小医生”，啥跟啥呀，
而最漂亮的名字，就是出现在Vorkosigan系列中的“太阳墙”，
太帅了。
但这个系列没能把太空歌剧的工夫做足，太空歌剧里，至少应该有一个
浩大的神秘宗教什么的，来点终极关怀，顿时就上升为
成年人的读物。Uplift系列好像就有如此之强，沙丘就不用说了。
Hyperion也有，阿西莫夫也把第二基地和古代机器人写得
差不多。那样一来，跟哈利波特完全不在一个档次上。
而Vorkosigan恐怕还得说是跟哈利波特在同一个档次上，
比哈利波特早、长、规模大就是了。
Vorkosigan有科幻上的遗产银河帝国，哈利波特却没能继承
史诗奇幻给它的大地。当然史诗奇幻已经把大地写烂了，可
科幻上一样把银河帝国写烂了，但银河帝国仍然是好东西。何况
Vorkosigan正式地把大地抢了过来，放到银河帝国之上，画了个
地图。这样一来，Vorkosigan占了个双份，哈利波特一样没沾着。
Vorkosigan能从阿西莫夫那里继承来骡子的形象，哈利波特
也没能继承个半身人啥的。
从文学风格来说，Vorkosigan和哈利波特有相像之处，这两位
杰出的作者倒都是大龄待业女青年出身，婚否待查。但是啊但是，
这可不是什么女性风格。康妮·威利斯写的东西比她们细腻的多，
也不缺少某种类似于终极关怀之类的东西。
Mirror Dance里我觉得大感动场面一堆，The Vor Game中却没有，
怎么回事？可能有如下的解释：1，Mirror Dance比The Vor Game
写得好，2，翻译把感动风格翻没了，这样的话，或许哈利波特
比我们想象的更加感人ft，3我读英文版读得细，Mirror Dance里
大感动场面其实不多但我体会得深些。
虽然作者以情节为重，但是偏偏在情节上也有粗糙之处。例如介绍大地
式的各个国家的时候，如果给他们一一贴上标签——狼一样的西塔甘达，
粗俗的贝塔，等等，读者会更加容易接受。这么典型的通俗小说技巧，
作者难道不屑于用么？一些关键场面，例如突然落入陷阱、或者
援军到来，都转得太平了，应赵老师号召，应该“逼得更紧”一些。
在战线尚可支撑的情况下援军到达，如果改成到战线崩溃，正待自杀
的时候援军到达，效果会更好。这样似乎太俗了些？那么到已经有人
自杀了的时候，援军才到达，那真有青年漫画的气概了，我还不知道
科幻和武侠里哪个写到过这么惨烈。
主角讨厌……主要在于两点，第一，作者太多渲染别人在他面前吃惊的
场面了。第二，他时常说一些弯子绕得太大的俏皮话，太贫。第一点
应该通过删除部分不必要场面来修正，第二点，在小说里批评一下
主角的恶习即可。主角巧舌如簧的本事并不令他显得可爱，正如韦小宝
并不因会说话显得可爱一样。令主角显得可爱的，我认为有一点，即
主角做事不考虑后果，只考虑眼前。因为他只来得及考虑眼前，这一点
既体现他能力有限，又体现他的魄力，一举两得，很好。
和银河英雄传说比较，宇宙战争场面虽然短，但是更精彩。论政治谋略，
The Vor Game几乎不逊于三国。用了三百字就描述了攻陷要塞的三种方法：
巧取、绕道、强攻。结果银英用一本书去写了杨威利的第一种方法，
剩下的九本书去写了莱茵哈特的第二种方法，又写了n多外传来讲述
同盟白痴们的第三种方法。但是，银河英雄传说也不是给比得完全没脾气了，
因为Vorkosigan系列并不是个政治寓言。但如果Bujold勉强自己去写
政治寓言的话，恐怕会毁掉作品和她的人生的。所以这样就很好了。
《贵族们的游戏》读后感(五)：不看原文不知道有多可怕
这书出了那么多年就没人发现中文版少了一章吗？
英文17章，中文只有16章！OTL
准确的说应该是漏了半章而不是一章。中文版把原文第4章的后半部分加在了第3章，第3章的最后和第4章的前半部分不知被谁吞掉了。内容大概就是迈尔斯被罚扫下水道发现尸体一具，后面的书里也有提过。
以下就是无端失踪的一大段，应该在中文书第40页那两段之间的空白处。
ext morning Miles reported to the maintenance shed for the second half of the scat-cat retrieval job, cleaning all the mud-caked equipment. The sun was bright today, and had been up for hours, but Miles's body knew it was only 0500. An hour into his task he'd begun to warm up, feel better, and get into the rhythm of the thing.
At 0630, the deadpan Lieutenant Bonn arrived, and delivered two helpers unto Miles.
quot;Why, Corporal Olney. Tech Pattas. We meet again." Miles smiled with acid cheer. The pair exchanged an uneasy look. Miles kept his demeanor absolutely even.
He then kept everyone, starting with himself, moving briskly. The conversation seemed to automatically limit itself to brief, wary technicalities. By the time Miles had to knock off and go report to Lieutenant Ahn, the scat-cat and most of the gear had been restored to better condition that Miles had received it.
He wished his two helpers, now driven to near-twitchiness by uncertainty, an earnest good-day. Well, if they hadn't figured it out by now, they were hopeless. Miles wondered bitterly why he seemed to have so much better luck establishing rapport with bright men like Bonn. Cecil had been right, if Miles couldn't figure out how to command the dull as well, he'd never make it as a Service officer. Not at Camp Permafrost, anyway.
The following morning, the third of his official punishment seven, Miles presented himself to Sergeant Neuve. The sergeant in turn presented Miles with a scat-cat full of equipment, a disk of the related equipment manuals, and the schedule for drain and culvert maintenance for Lazkowski Base. Clearly, it was to be another learning experience. Miles wondered if General Metzov had selected this task personally. He rather thought so.
On the bright side, he had his two helpers back again. This particular civil engineering task had apparently never fallen on Olney or Pattas before either, so they had no edge of superior knowledge with which to trip Miles. They had to stop and read the manuals first too. Miles swotted procedures and directed operations with a good cheer that edged toward manic as his helpers became glummer.
There was, after all, a certain fascination to the clever drain-cleaning devices. And excitement. Flushing pipes with high pressure could produce some surprising effects. There were chemical compounds that had some quite military properties, such as the ability to dissolve anything instantly including human flesh. In the following three days Miles learned more about the infrastructure of Lazkowski Base than he'd ever imagined wanting to know. He'd even calculated the point where one well- placed charge could bring the entire system down, if he ever decided he wanted to destroy the place.
On the sixth day, Miles and his team were sent to clear a blocked culvert out by the grubs' practice fields. It was easy to spot. A silver sheet of water lapped the raised roadway on one side; on the other only a feeble trickle emerged to creep away down the bottom of a deep ditch.
Miles took a long telescoping pole from the back of their scat-cat; and probed down into the water's opaque surface. Nothing seemed to be blocking the flooded end of the culvert. Whatever it was must be jammed farther in. Joy. He handed the pole back to Pattas and wandered over to the other side of the road, and stared down into the ditch. The culvert, he noted, was something over half a meter in diameter. "Give me a light," he said to Olney. He shucked his parka and tossed it into the scat-cat, and scrambled down into the ditch. He aimed his light into the aperture. The culvert evidently curved slightly; he couldn't see a damned thing. He sighed, considering the relative width of Olney's shoulders, Pattas's, and his own.
Could there be anything further from ship duty than this？ The closest he'd come to anything of a sort was spelunking in the Dendarii Mountains. Earth and water, versus fire and air. He seemed to be building up a helluva supply of yin, the balancing yang to come had better be stupendous.
He gripped the light tighter, dropped to hands and knees, and shinnied into the drain.
The icy water soaked the trouser knees of his black fatigues. The effect was numbing. Water leaked around the top of one of his gloves. It felt like a knife blade on his wrist.
Miles meditated briefly on Olney and Pattas. They had developed a cool, reasonably efficient working relationship over the last few days, based, Miles had no illusions, on a fear of God instilled in the two men by Miles's good angel Lieutenant Bonn. How did Bonn accomplish that quiet authority, anyway？ He had to figure that one out. Bonn was good at his job, for starters, but what else？
Miles scraped round the curve, shone his light on the clot, and recoiled, swearing. He paused a moment to regain control of his breath, examined the blockage more closely, and backed out.
He stood up in the bottom of the ditch, straightening his spine vertebra by creaking vertebra. Corporal Olney stuck his head over the road's railing, above. "What's in there, ensign？"
Miles grinned up at him, still catching his breath. "Pair of boots."
quot;That's all？" said Olney.
quot;Their owner is still wearing 'em."
CHAPTER FOUR
Miles called the base surgeon on the scat-cat's comm link urgently requesting his presence with forensic kit, body bag, and medical transport Miles and his crew then blocked the upper end of the drain with a plastic signboard forcibly borrowed from the empty practice field beyond. Now so thoroughly wet and cold that it made no difference, Miles crawled back into the culvert to attach a rope to the anonymous booted ankles. When he emerged, the surgeon and his corpsman had arrived. The surgeon, a big, balding man, peered dubiously into the drainpipe.
quot;What could you see in there, ensign？ What happened？"
quot;I can't see anything from this end but legs, sir," Miles reported.
quot;He's got himself wedged in there but good. Drain crud up above him I'd guess. We'll have to see what spills out with him.
quot;What the hell was he doing in there？" The surgeon scratched his freckled scalp.
Miles spread his hands. "Seems a peculiar way to commit suicide."
low and chancy, as far as drowning yourself goes." The surgeon raised his eyebrows in agreement. Miles and the surgeon had to lend their weight on the rope to Olney, Pattas, and the corpsman, before the stiff form wedged in the culvert began to scrape free.
quot;He's stuck," observed the corpsman, grunting. The body jerked out at last with a gush of dirty water. Pattas and Olney stared from a distance; Miles glued himself to the surgeon's shoulder. The corpse, dressed in sodden black fatigues, was waxy and blue. His collar tabs and the contents of his pockets identified him as a private from Supply. His body bore no obvious wounds, but for bruised shoulders and scraped hands.
The surgeon spoke clipped, negative preliminaries into his recorder. No broken bones, no nerve disrupter blisters. Preliminary hypothesis, death from drowning or hypothermia or both, within the last twelve hours. He flipped off his recorder and added over his shoulder, "I'll be able to tell for sure when we get him laid out back at the infirmary."
quot;Does this sort of thing happen often around here？" Miles inquired mildly.
The surgeon shot him a sour look. "I slab a few idiots every year. What d'you expect, when you put five thousand kids between the ages of eighteen and twenty together on an island and tell 'em to go play war？ I admit, this one seems to have discovered a completely new method of slabbing himself. I guess you never see it all."
quot;You think he did it to himself, then？" True, it would be real tricky to kill a man and then stuff him in there.
The surgeon wandered over to the culvert and squatted, and stared into it. "So it would seem. Ah, would you take one more look in there, ensign, just in case？"
quot;Very well, sir." Miles hoped it was the last trip. He'd never have guessed drain cleaning would turn out to be so... thrilling. He slithered all the way under the road to the leaky board, checking every centimeter, but found only the dead man's dropped hand light. So. The private had evidently entered the pipe on purpose. With intent. What intent？ Why go culvert-crawling in the middle of the night in the middle of a heavy rainstorm？ Miles skinned back out and turned the light over to the surgeon.
Miles helped the corpsman and surgeon bag and load the body, then had Olney and Pattas raise the blocking board and return it to its original location. Brown water gushed, roaring, from the bottom end of the culvert and roiled away down the ditch. The surgeon Paused with Miles, leaning on the road railing and watching the water level drop in the little lake.
quot;Think there might be another one at the bottom？" Miles inquired Morbidly.
quot;This guy was the only one listed as missing on the morning report," the surgeon replied, "so probably not." He didn't look like he was willing to bet on it, though.
The only thing that did turn up, as the water level fell, was the private's soggy parka. He'd clearly tossed it over the railing before entering the culvert, from which it had fallen or blown into the water. The surgeon took it away with him.
quot;You're pretty cool about that," Pattas noted, as Miles turned away from the back of the medical transport and the surgeon and corps-man drove off.
attas was not that much older than Miles himself. "Haven't you ever had to handle a corpse？"
quot;No. You？"
quot;Yes."
quot;Where？"
Miles hesitated. Events of three years ago flickered through his memory. The brief months he'd been caught in desperate combat far from home, having accidently fallen in with a space mercenary force, was not a secret to be mentioned or even hinted at here. Regular Imperial troops despised mercenaries anyway, alive or dead. But the Tau Verde campaign had surely taught him the difference between "practice" and "real," between war and war games, and that death had subtler vectors than direct touch. "Before," said Miles dampingly. "Couple of times."
attas shrugged, veering off. "Well," he allowed grudgingly over his shoulder, "at least you're not afraid to get your hands dirty. Sir."
Miles's brows crooked, bemused. No. That's not what I'm afraid of.
Miles marked the drain "cleared" on his report panel, turned the scat-cat, their equipment, and a very subdued Olney and Pattas back in to Sergeant Neuve in Maintenance, and headed for the officers' barracks. He'd never wanted a hot shower more in his entire life.
He was squelching down the corridor toward his quarters when; another officer stuck his head out a door. "Ah, Ensign Vorkosigan？" I
quot;Yes？"
quot;You got a vid call a while ago. I encoded the return for you."
quot;Call？" Miles stopped. "Where from？"
quot;Vorbarr Sultana."
Miles felt a chill in his belly. Some emergency at home？ "Thanks."
He reversed direction, and beelined for the end of the corridor and the vidconsole booth that the officers on this level shared.
He slid damply into the seat and punched up the message, number was not one he recognized. He entered it, and his chancode, and waited. It chimed several times, then the vidplate hissed to life. His cousin Ivan's handsome face materialized over it, and grinned at him.
quot;Ah, Miles. There you are."
quot;Ivan! Where the devil are you？ What is this？"
quot;Oh, I'm at home. And that doesn't mean my mother's. I thought you might like to see my new flat."
Miles had the vague, disoriented sensation that he'd somehow tapped a line into some parallel universe, or alternate astral plane. Vorbarr Sultana, yes. He'd lived in the capital himself, in a previous incarnation. Eons ago.
Ivan lifted his vid pick-up, and aimed it around, dizzyingly. "It's fully furnished. I took over the lease from an Ops captain who was being transferred to Komarr. A real bargain. I just got moved in yesterday. Can you see the balcony？"
Miles could see the balcony, drenched in late afternoon sunlight the color of warm honey. The Vorbarr Sultana skyline rose like a fairytale city, swimming in the summer haze beyond. Scarlet flowers swarmed over the railing, so red in the level light they almost hurt his eyes. Miles felt like drooling into his shirtpocket, or bursting into tears. "Nice flowers," he choked.
quot;Yeah, m'girlfriend brought 'em."
quot;Girlfriend？" Ah yes, human beings had come in two sexes, once upon a time. One smelled much better than the other. Much. "Which one？"
quot;Tatya."
quot;Have I met her？" Miles struggled to remember.
quot;Naw, she's new."
Ivan stopped waving the vid pick-up around, and reappeared over the vid-plate. Miles's exacerbated senses settled slightly. "So how's the weather up there？" Ivan peered at him more closely. "Are you wet？ What have you been doing？"
quot;Forensic... plumbing," Miles offered after a pause.
quot;What？" Ivan's brow wrinkled.
quot;Never mind." Miles sneezed. "Look, I'm glad to see a familiar face and all that," he was, actually—a painful strange gladness, "but I'm in the middle of my duty day, here."
quot;I got off-shift a couple of hours ago," Ivan remarked. "I'm taking Tatya out for dinner in a bit. You just caught me. So just tell me quick, how's life in the infantry？"
quot;Oh, great. Lazkowski Base is the real thing, y'know." Miles did not define what real thing. "Not a... warehouse for excess Vor lordlings like Imperial Headquarters."
quot;I do my job!" said Ivan, sounding slightly stung. "Actually, you'd like my job. We process information. It's amazing, all the stuff Ops accesses in a day's time. It's like being on top of the world. It would be just your speed."
quot;Funny. I've thought that Lazkowski Base would be just yours, Ivan. Suppose they could have got our orders reversed？"
Ivan tapped the side of his nose and sniggered. "I wouldn't tell." His humor sobered in a glint of real concern. "You, ah, take care of yourself up there, eh？ You really don't look so good."
quot;I've had an unusual morning. If you'd sod off, I could go get a shower."
quot;Oh, right. Well, take care."
quot;Enjoy your dinner."
quot;Right-oh. 'Bye."
Voices from another universe. At that, Vorbarr Sultana was only a couple of hours away by sub-orbital flight. In theory. Miles was obscurely comforted, to be reminded that the whole planet hadn't shrunk to the lead-grey horizons of Kyril Island, even if his part of it seemed to have.
Miles found it difficult to concentrate on the weather, the rest of that day. Fortunately his superior didn't much notice. Since the scat-cat sinking Ahn had tended to maintain a guilty, nervous silence around Miles except when directly prodded for specific information. When his duty-day ended Miles headed straight for the infirmary.
The surgeon was still working, or at least sitting, at his desk console when Miles poked his head around the doorframe. "Good evening, sir."
The surgeon glanced up. "Yes, ensign？ What is it？"
Miles took this as sufficient invitation despite the unencouraging tone of voice, and slipped within. "I was wondering what you'd found out about that fellow we pulled from the culvert this morning."
The surgeon shrugged. "Not that much to find out. His ID checked. He died of drowning. All the physical and metabolic evidence— stress, hypothermia, the hematomas—are consistent with his being stuck in there for a bit less than half an hour before death. I've ruled it death by misadventure."
quot;Yes, but why？"
quot;Why？" The surgeon's eyebrows rose. "He slabbed himself, you'll have to ask him, eh？"
quot;Don't you want to find out？"
quot;To what purpose？"
quot;Well... to know, I guess. To be sure you're right."
The surgeon gave him a dry stare.
quot;I'm not questioning your medical findings, sir," Miles added hastily. "But it was just so damn weird. Aren't you curious？"
quot;Not any more," said the surgeon. "I'm satisfied it wasn't suicide or foul play, so whatever the details, it comes down to death from stupidity in the end, doesn't it？"
Miles wondered if that would have been the surgeon's final epitaph on him, if he'd sunk himself with the scat-cat. "I suppose so, sir."
tanding outside the infirmary afterward in the damp wind, Miles hesitated. The corpse, after all, was not Miles's personal property. Not a case of finders- keepers. He'd turned the situation over to the proper authority. It was out of his hands now. And yet...
There were still several hours of daylight left. Miles was having trouble sleeping anyway, in these almost-endless days. He returned to his quarters, pulled on sweat pants and shirt and running shoes, and went jogging.
The road was lonely, out by the empty practice fields. The sun crawled crabwise toward the horizon. Miles broke from a jog back to a walk, then to a slower walk. His leg-braces chafed, beneath his pants. One of these days very soon he would take the time to get the brittle long bones in his legs replaced with synthetics. At that, elective surgery might be a quasi-legitimate way to lever himself off Kyril Island, if things got too desperate before his six months were up. It seemed like cheating, though.
He looked around, trying to imagine his present surroundings in the dark and heavy rain. If he had been the private, slogging along this road about midnight, what would he have seen？ What could possibly have attracted the man's attention to the ditch？ Why the hell had he come out here in the middle of the night in the first place？ This road wasn't on the way to anything but an obstacle course and a firing range.
There was the ditch... no, his ditch was the next one, a little farther on. Four culverts pierced the raised roadway along this half-kilometer straight stretch. Miles found the correct ditch and leaned on the railing, staring down at the now-sluggish trickle of drain water. There was nothing attractive about it now, that was certain. Why, why, why... ？
Miles sloped along up the high side of the road, examining the road surface, the railing, the sodden brown bracken beyond. He came to the curve and turned back, studying the opposite side. He arrived back at the first ditch, on the baseward end of the straight stretch, without discovering any view of charm or interest.
Miles perched on the railing and meditated. All right, time to try a little logic. What overwhelming emotion had led the private to wedge himself in the drain, despite the obvious danger？ Rage？ What had he been pursuing？ Fear？ What could have been pursuing him？ Error？ Miles knew all about error. What if the man had picked the wrong culvert... ？
Impulsively, Miles slithered down into the first ditch. Either the man had been methodically working his way through all the culverts —if so, had he been working from the base out, or from the practice fields back？—or else he had missed his intended target in the dark and rain and got into the wrong one. Miles would give them all a crawl- through if he had to, but he preferred to be right the first time. Even if there wasn't anybody watching. This culvert was slightly wider in diameter than the second, lethal one. Miles pulled his hand light from his belt, ducked within, and began examining it centimeter by centimeter.
quot;Ah," he breathed in satisfaction, midway beneath the road. There was his prize, stuck to the upper side of the culvert's arc with sagging tape. A package, wrapped in waterproof plastic. How interesting. He slithered out and sat in the mouth of the culvert, careless of the damp but carefully out of view from the road above.
He placed the packet on his lap and studied it with pleasurable anticipation, as if it had been a birthday present. Could it be drugs, contraband, classified documents, criminal cash？ Personally, Miles hoped for classified documents, though it was hard to imagine anyone classifying anything on Kyril Island except maybe the efficiency reports. Drugs would be all right, but a spy ring would be just wonderful. He'd be a Security hero—his mind raced ahead, already plotting the next move in his covert investigation. Following the dead man's trail through subtle clues to some ringleader, who knew how high up？ The dramatic arrests, maybe a commendation from Simon, Illyan himself.... The package was lumpy, but crackled slightly—plastic flimsies？ Heart hammering, he eased it open—and slumped in stunned I disappointment. A pained breath, half-laugh, half-moan, puffed from his lips. Pastries. A couple of dozen lisettes, a kind of miniature popovers glazed and stuffed with candied fruit, made, traditionally, for the midsummer day celebration. Month and a half old stale pastries. What a cause to die for....
Miles's imagination, fueled by knowledge of barracks life, sketched in the rest readily enough. The private had received this package from some sweetheart/mother/sister, and sought to protect it from his ravenous mates, who would have wolfed it all down in seconds. Perhaps the man, starved for home, had been rationing them out to himself morsel by morsel in a lingering masochistic ritual, pleasure and pain mixed with each bite. Or maybe he'd just been saving them for some special occasion.
Then came the two days of unusual heavy rain, and the man had begun to fear for his secret treasure's, ah, liquidity margin. He'd come out to rescue his cache, missed the first ditch in the dark, gone at the second in desperate determination as the waters rose, realized his mistake too late....
ad. A little sickening. But not useful. Miles sighed, and bundled the lisettes back up, and trotted off with the package under his arm, back to the base to turn it over to the surgeon.
The surgeon's only comment, when Miles caught up with him and explained his findings, was "Yep. Death from stupidity, all right." Absently he bit into a lisette and sniffed.