"Blish, James - A Work of Art" - читать интересную книгу автора (Blish James)

however, had already been diverted by a new singularity.
Strauss is a word as well as a name in German; it has many
meaningsan ostrich, a bouquet; von Wolzogen had had a
high old time working all the possible puns into the libretto
of Feuersnot. And it happened to be the first German word
to be spoken either by himself or by Dr. Kris since that
twice-removed moment of death. The language was not
French or Italian, either. It was most like English, but not
the English Strauss knew; nevertheless, he was having no
trouble speaking it and even thinking in it.
Well, he thought, I'll be able to conduct The Love of Danae
after alt. It isn't every composer who can premiere his own
opera posthumously. Still, there was something queer about
all this the queerest part of all being that conviction, which
would not go away, that he had actually been dead for just
a short time. Of course medicine was making great strides,
but...
"Explain all this," he said, lifting himself to one elbow.
The bed was different, too, and not nearly as comfortable as
the one in which he had died. As for the room, it looked
more like a dynamo shed than a sickroom. Had modern med-
icine taken to reviving its corpses on the floor of the Sie-
manns-Schakert plant?
"In a moment," Dr. Kris said. He finished rolling some
machine back into what Strauss impatiently supposed to be
its place, and crossed to the pallet. "Now. There are many
things you'll have to take for granted without attempting to
understand them. Dr. Strauss. Not everything in the world
today is explicable in terms of your assumptions. Please bear
that in mind."
"Very well. Proceed."
"The date," Dr. Kris said, "is 2161 by your calendar
or, in other words, it is now two hundred and twelve years
after your death. Naturally, you'll realize that by this time
nothing remains of your body but the bones. The body you
have now was volunteered for your use. Before you look
into a mirror to see what it's like, remember that its physical
difference from the one you were used to is all in your
favor. It's in perfect health, not unpleasant for other people
to look at, and its physiological age is about fifty."
A miracle? No, not in this new age, surely. It was simply
a work of science. But what a science! This was Nietzsche's
eternal recurrence and the immortality of the superman
combined into one.
"And where is this?" the composer said.
"In Port York, part of the State of Manhattan, in the
United States. You will find the country less changed in
some respects than I imagine you anticipate. Other changes,
of course, will seem radical to you; but it's hard for me to
predict which ones will strike you that way. A certain