"Gardner Dozois & Michael Swanwick - Ancestral Voices" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dozois Gardner)

quiet and serenity out here this morning, the snow now falling heavily but without
sound close outside the window, like a slow fall of feathers, muting the daylight and
filling it with shifting highlights, so that it was like being all alone in a bubble on the
bottom of the sea. She hated to shatter that peacefulness with noise before it needed
to be shattered; Desmond would be down and rattling the china with his booming,
cheaply genial voice soon enough.
Besides, there wouldnтАЩt be much worth listening to on the radio anyway.
Sometimes she could pull in WGBH from Boston in the mornings and listen to
chamber music or string quartets, but for months now thereтАЩd been too much static
from all the sunspot activity to tune it in clearly, and all sheтАЩd been able to get for the
last few days were somberly hysterical talk-radio stations yattering on about the
current international crisis, lines being drawn in the sand, frantic diplomatic efforts,
troops massing at borders, military alerts, security advisories, leaves being canceled,
aircraft carriers on the move, and so onтАФand she was sick to the teeth of that. All
the familiar stuff, saber-rattling, jingoism, the vitriolic outpourings of suddenly
acceptable racism toward people we were supposed to like only a few months
before. Primate Aggressive Displays, chimps hooting at each other and beating their
breasts until they had worked themselves up into enough of a lather to attack. It
seemed like sheтАЩd been hearing this stuff all her long life, one conflict after another,
one enemy after another, and she was sick of it. Let them have their war and leave
her alone, here in her own kitchen. She didnтАЩt have to listen to them talk about it!
 тАЬHi, Gamma!тАЭ It was Jennifer, down first, chirpy-happy as usual, practically
bouncing with enthusiasm. Remember when you had that much energy? Mrs.
Kingsley thought wryly. Remember when you had a fourth of it? She let Jennifer help
by setting out the silverware and napkins, while she fried up eggs and sausages and
piles of French toast, all in an iron skillet with lots of Crisco.
The second one up was her son-in-lawтАЩs roadhouse pick-up. She slumped
down on a chair, eyes bleary under smeared makeup. Her hair was done in that kind
of razor-cut where you can never tell if itтАЩs brushed or not. тАЬMorning,тАЭ she
mumbled. She picked up a fork and stared at it, turning it over and over in her hand,
as if sheтАЩd never seen Grand Baroque silver before in her life, and were searching for
a clue to its purpose.
Sliding breakfast in front of her, Mrs. Kingsley was struck by the horrible
realization that this young chippie was somebodyтАЩs daughter, and probably came
down to the breakfast table in exactly the same sullen way every morning, with
grumbled greeting and averted eyes. Maybe she hadnтАЩt even noticed yet that she
hadnтАЩt made it home the night before.
тАЬIt snowed two feet last night,тАЭ the child announced. тАЬGamma says maybe itтАЩll
snow all day today, right Gamma?тАЭ Then, when Gamma didnтАЩt reply, тАЬMy nameтАЩs
Jennifer, whatтАЩs yours?тАЭ
The woman stared at Jennifer, as if the girl had been suddenly and without
warning plopped down out of the sky before her. тАЬCandy,тАЭ she said at last.
The childтАЩs father chose that moment to make his appearance. He lifted
Jennifer out of her chair, hugged her, and held her up in the air while she squealed.
Then he peered out the window. тАЬStill coming down, eh?тАЭ He whistled. тАЬLook at
that drift over by the barn! Jesus!тАЭ
Desmond was wearing jeans and a green football jersey with white sleeves and
a double-zero numeral on the back. Bits of lint were stuck in his beard; it would
never have occurred to him to brush it before breakfast. He took a sip from the
coffee cup that had been awaiting him for the past ten minutes, ever since sheтАЩd