"Kathleen Ann Goonan - What Science Fiction is All About, or The Amazing Dancing Chairs" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goose Mother)

human now, the watchword. We must be very, very careful about the possible consequences of our
science and the resulting technologies. IтАЩve even heard that it would be better not to even think in
scientific ways. I donтАЩt remember who said that, but it was someone who finds the idea of evolution
irritating. They donтАЩt mind cellophane, or television. They like to pick and choose.

I am very sure that they must be right about the dangers of science. I can think of a lot of problems. For
instance, if the chairs developed consciousness and a mind of their own, what a mess that would be. As a
former preschool teacher, I can tell you that if you mixed a class of four-year-olds with a roomful of
dancing chairs you might as well hang it up now.

It is fun to think about, though.

Anyway, last week, I was watering our infant orchard, which is well away and above LeftonтАЩs house,
when a bullet whizzed past my head. It snicked through the leaves of the chestnut oak above me and
shredded them.

At first, I wasnтАЩt really sure it had been a bullet. After all, even though Lefton wallows in target practice
just about every evening, kind of a relaxing treat after a hard day of work, and his shots boom out (loud:
he must have wasted a couple of dollars on a rifle shell) or are just a burst of six delicate cracks (his .32;
heтАЩs being economical), I assumed that he kept his gun directed at the stuffed deer he keeps in his yard
for target practice.

I know about the stuffed deer because last year I walked through LeftonтАЩs yard with Christopher, who
owns the white house. Christopher lives down the road in his own white house. LeftonтАЩs house once
belonged to ChristopherтАЩs uncle, who operated a still on the land we now own. Their families grew
tobacco, cows, and other crops, but now Christopher owns it all and hays all summer long, into the dusk.
He still grows cows.




Christopher also grows Ambrosia corn. Think of a trademark sign. He had a trial year in which he grew
about six different kind of sweet corn and we all agreed that Ambrosia was the crispest, sweetest, most
delicate and delicious corn, so now he grows it exclusively. This really showcases how evil the whole
idea of evolution can be. You can change dull corn into sharp, sweet, Ambrosia corn. Surely this is a
terrible thing. Christopher doesnтАЩt have much of a garden, just enough corn, tomatoes, squash, and
peppers for himself, some neighbors, and his family.

Last summer he kept a garden up by LeftonтАЩs house, and told me to come on up and get some corn. I
brought a basket and followed him up the driveway to LeftonтАЩs white house, raising a chorus of howls
and barks from LeftonтАЩs numerous dogs. They strained at their chains, barking their different barksтАФark,
ark, hwooo, whuff, and so on, the barks which blend, up at my house, into a great dog din that can erupt
day or night, any time. Sometimes I yell or whistle to start it off. This works even from far away. ItтАЩs not
very niceтАФthink of how it sounds coming through LeftonтАЩs windows--but I feel sorry for LeftonтАЩs dogs.
They are bored out of their skulls.

We made it through the bark gauntlet, passed the bullet-riddled stuffed deer, held up by sticks and wire
but listing badly, and reached a shed behind the house. The weathered gray boards were covered with
raccoon, coyote, bear, and deer skins. Their heads were intact, and their legs were spread out as if they
were being crucified. Lefton actually eats what he kills, so I donтАЩt hold this against him. Really, I donтАЩt.