"David Brin - The River of Time" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brin David)

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The River of Time
By

David Brin
I don't think anyone knows exactly when it began. It seemed a fatal disease, at
first. Dozens, possibly hundreds, were buried or cremated before the ComaSlow
epidemic was recognized for what it was.
It was a pseudodeath that struck without warning. There was no precursor, no
symptom that gave any clue to its coming.
Its victims were often found in bed, apparently asleep, yet rigid and unrousable.
They were discovered on sidewalks, vacant-eyed and poised precariously in
mid-stride. At office desks the ComaSlow were found staring blankly at papers,
pencils poised above undotted i's.
These corpses remained warm. Under careful scrutiny, they were found to
consume oxygen and give off carbon dioxide. Their stiffness shared only one
attribute with rigor mortis... an adamant resistance to motion.
Nobody had ever seen anything like it before. Soon a public investigation was
launched.
Several weeks after the epidemic was recognized, the wheels of government
reaction creaked far enough to pull me into this mess. By the time the Emergency
Management Agency got around to drawing from its "Crackpot Consultant" list, I
had seen the new death strike several acquaintances, two close friends, and--before
my eyes--my agent.
Larry Carpis was treating me to lunch at Goldfarb's, a medium-priced restaurant
not far from his office, where he traditionally took his clients in the "bright, young,
and promising" category.
 I had barely touched my steak, so involved was I with my own brilliance. I made
grand gestures with my hands, telling Harry about my idea for another "Harold
Freebooter" novel.
Carpis ate slowly, as a rule, and spoke little over a meal. He had a tendency to
pause and consider beforehand when he did comment. Because of this, it was hard
for me to tell exactly when the change occurred. I noticed that he had taken on a
particularly bemused expression, a forkful of chef's salad midway to his mouth. He
looked my way attentively, but when I shifted in my seat I saw that his gaze didn't
follow me.
I never did find out what Larry thought of my novel. It was a pretty good idea, if I
do say so myself. Naturally, it never got written.
One stricken day later I was awakened early by a pounding on my door.
Bleary-eyed, I opened it to face two very large, very starched military policemen.
"Are you Daniel Brand, the sci-fi writer?" the larger of the two asked.
"Um, that's science fiction. Besides, I write a lot of fact articles... too."
I was speaking on automatic pilot. Here were two big MPs on my doorstep, and I