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

correcting his euphemistic тАЬdefense workтАЭтАФand he loved to bait her about it.
тАЬThereтАЩs a television in the living room,тАЭ she said stiffly. тАЬWe get CNN even
out here in the boondocks. Just keep the volume down. I donтАЩt care to hear it.тАЭ
He shook his head. тАЬYouтАЩd think youтАЩd want to know whatтАЩs going on.
ThereтАЩs a crisis underway! DonтАЩt you care what happens?тАЭ
Mrs. Kingsley hesitated, and glanced toward Jennifer, but she and the
roadhouse floozy were busy playing dolls together with the salt and pepper shakers;
obviously Jennifer had found a companion on her own level of emotional
development. тАЬI donтАЩt care what happens anymore,тАЭ she said, keeping her voice
pitched low. тАЬLet them have their war. Let them all kill each other. Unless they drop
an H-bomb on Montpelier, I donтАЩt intend to take any notice of it.тАЭ
Desmond made a disgusted face. тАЬYouтАЩve got your head in the sand! You
think the real world is going to go away just because you donтАЩt like it? You have to
deal with things as they are. Do something about them! If there werenтАЩt so many
people who think like you, maybe Stephanie would still be alive.тАЭ
They glared at each other, locking gazes. HeтАЩd stepped over the line, though,
and he knew it, for, after a moment, he had the grace to look faintly embarrassed.
Her gaze, though, was unflinching and unforgiving.
At that moment, opportunely, there was a scratching at the door, and she had
to go let the dog back in.
тАЬO base Iago! O inhuman dog!тАЭ she declaimed as the mutt bounded in.
Candy stared at her uncomprehendingly. The little chit had probably never even
heard of Shakespeare.
Iago was jumping up on her, panting and enthusiastically trying to wag his
entire body. She looked deliberately at Desmond. тАЬLet slip the dogs of War, eh?тАЭ
she said, and smiled sweetly. She knew heтАЩd heard of Shakespeare.


It was weakening. Perhaps it held enough reserves for another day or so, if it
husbanded its resources. But that way lay oblivion and slow death; to survive it
needed to strike out, to forage away from the comforting shelter of the barn, out into
the flat, horribly open countryside.
It was hesitating by the door when the sound of trudging footsteps
approached, heading straight for it.
Jerking back as if struck, it rose up, mantle stiffening, ready to attack. Then
caution took over, and it retreated swiftly to the shadows, hunkering down into the
darkest corner, every sense on edge, waiting, observing.
The door rattled, then flew open. Two sophonts stepped into the barn,
accompanied by a wild skirl of snowflakes. They slammed the door shut noisily, and
stamped their boots clear of snow.
It listened carefully to words it could not comprehend.
тАЬI donтАЩt think your mother-in-law likes me.тАЭ
тАЬDonтАЩt take it personally. The old bat doesnтАЩt like anyone.тАЭ
Stealthily, slowly, it moved. Keeping to the shadows and edges, it made its
way to a wide support beam beyond the direct perception of the sophonts. Swiftly,
it flowed up the beamтАЩs far side, up to the loft, and then to the rafters, just below the
ridgepole. Given the choice, it was always best to strike from above.
It moved cautiously, always conscious of the gentle tickle of the fire-of-life
below.
The shorter of the two produced fire. Smoke snarled through the cold air. It