"Michael Flynn - In the Country of the Blind" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flynn Michael)

curtain of rain, headed for the Potomac bridges and who knew what fate? When
he turned his attention back to the street, the landau was there in front of
him. The nigh horse, no more than three feet away, blew his breath out and
rolled his eyes at him. Startled, the man took a step backward into a puddle,
while the driver, a shapeless lump on the lazyboard, pulled on his reins to
calm the beast.
The door opened and Isaac poked his bead out, smiling sourly. "Well, Brady,"
he asked in his broad New England accent, "will you climb in, or do you like
the rain so much?" Brady didn't bother to answer. He stepped into the cab and
sat beside the older man. The upholstery inside the landau smelled dank and
musty; the hint of mold in every breath. Everything in Washington smelled that
way. It was an awful town. What did people say about it? That it had all the
charm of a Northern city; and all the efficiency of a Southron one. Brady
shook the rain off his hat, and wiped his face with his neckerchief. The
carriage started with a jerk.
He saw Isaac glance covertly at the briefcase, and snorted. "Impatient,
Isaac?" he asked. His Indiana voice twanged like a Jew's harp. "My train
arrived two hours ago. You could have met me then, at the station."
"Ayuh," Isaac agreed readily. "Could have. Didn't."
Brady grunted and looked out at the passing houses, colorless and gray in the
pouring rain. They were headed toward Georgetown. Abruptly, the texture of the
ride changed. The bouncing and rattling gave way to a sticky, sucking sound.
The horses' hooves slapped the muddy road. Brady smiled. "I see they haven't
finished paving the streets yet."
"Ayuh. Nor finished the Capitol Dome, neither." Isaac looked at him, then
looked away. "Great many things still unfinished."
Brady let that lie and they rode awhile in silence. "Town's danged spy-crazy,"
said Isaac alter a while. "Too many comin's and goin's. Draws attention. I was
followed last week, I think. Naught to do with the Society, but the Council
thought 'twere best we not meet at the station."
Brady looked at him. That was as close to an apology as he was ever going to
get from the New Englander. He sighed.
"'Tain't important," he said.
Isaac leaned over and tapped the briefcase with his index finger. "But this
is," he said. "This is. Tell me square, Brady, and on the level. Is it what we
expected?"
Brady didn't answer him directly. He stroked the leather with his palm,
feeling the wetness. The metal clasps were cold to his touch. "Three weeks of
calculations," he said. Three weeks, even with Babbage engines, and six of us,
working in two teams around the clock. We used numerical integration and some
of that new theory that's come from Galois' papers. When we were done, we
switched over and checked the other team's work." He shook his head. "There's
no mistake."
"Then he must die."
Brady jerked his head around and looked at Isaac. The New Englander was drawn
and pale. The age-spots were dark against his parchmentlike skin. Brady nodded
once, and Isaac shut his eyes.
"Well, that be news should please some on the Council," he said, gazing on
some inner landscape. "Davis and Meechum. Phineas, too. His mills are idled,
with no cotton coming North."