"L. Timmel Duchamp - De Secretis Mulierum" - читать интересную книгу автора (Duchamp L Timmel)

reason for peeping on him was to find out just what the hell had happened to
him
during that mystery mass). A great, collective sigh went up at his so
veritatious, life-sized presence on the stage before us. Who could mistake the
man for anyone but the sainted theologian? He was gargantuan, of course.
(Prior
to the scan, everyone's favorite anecdote about him concerned the hellish time
the Cistercians had getting his corpse down their stairs after his death.) The
awe-inspiring sight overpowered me. I remember thinking it was lucky light
waves
don't carry odors: but then the raunchy stench of pre-modern times is one of
the
details with which we pepper our students to erode their godawful romanticism
about certain overly Hollywoodized areas of the past, and so it might not have
been strictly his dingy, greasy appearance that provoked such an irreverent
thought.

We watched with bated breaths, some of us literally on the edge of our seats.
(Three persons, at most, were allowed at any given time to move around the
perimeter of the stage, since any more than that would have blocked the view
for
the rest of the observers.) Every now and then I would tear my eyes from this
vivid image of medieval reality to snatch glances at the renowned and eminent
historians sharing the moment with me. Several had declared themselves
skeptics
[particularly the French, who Teddy claimed were annoyed at having been
outdone
by mere Americans, who the world had begun to assume were dead in the R & D
department. And though Teddy himself could not take the credit for this
fabulous
example of American R & D, his wife had had a great deal to do with it).
Still,
the stage held us transfixed, skeptics and "believers" alike. Most of the
younger members of the contingent muttered incessantly into the mikes of their
pocket terminals. (I didn't dare, of course, since I held the place of honor
beside Teddy.) Each gesture was noted for future analysis, every piece of
clothing scrutinized and committed to memory. In those early days, we lapped
up
every drop and crumb the lab allowed us because we feared each scan might be
our
last.

The PSD belonged to the government then las it still does today). Any
technical
explanation of how the PSD functions would be over my head --presuming the NSA
ever allowed it to be divulged. (In those early days, as far as we historians
were concerned, the PSD might as well have been magic.) But because it was so
high-tech, we were all aware -- or should I say afraid -- the PSD might
malfunction. Most high-tech systems and objects, after all, eventually do.