"Gordon Gross - Little House on the Accretion Disk" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gross Gordon)

тАЬWhere do you think it all goes?тАЭ UtitтАЩs thoughts had reached him as pictures
and shapes, colors and sound. But the meaning had been clear. The symphony of
her thoughts was always a pleasure.

тАЬNo idea. Perhaps it is still there, just out of sight, just out of reach.тАЭ

тАЬThat is no answer,тАЭ Utit had chided, the rusty taste of hydrogen and the bite
of brilliant blue-white hazing the message.

тАЬIt is an answer. Just not the one you want.тАЭ His retort had carried an
unintended bitter cold, but they both knew the situation, and Utit had taken no
offense.

Utit had guided his senses outward to the nearly complete blackness. Only a
few stars remained, and the time-spot spun its furious dance.

тАЬImagine,тАЭ she had said, тАЬthere are other ponds out there with nothing to feed
them. Just cold, empty holes. The universe has become a giant sieve. It must have all
gone somewhere.тАЭ

Sirtot had left the statement unchallenged, unanswered.

тАЬSomeday I am going to find out the where. Before the cold closes in,тАЭ Utit
had finished.

***

Slowly sipping at the nectar of the nearby pond, Sirtot looked up. The black
sky was vast and cold. Mere wisps of sound and static answered his stare. One lone
star remained to keep the time-spot company. The two points were the only contrast
to the solid velvet of his view.

Suddenly, at the edge of thought, the star blossomed. Sirtot concentrated,
bringing the entirety of his consciousness to the site, to watch the final convulsions
of the star venting its outer layers into the emptiness surrounding it. The sphere of
glowing plasma spread its heat into space in beautiful reds, one last time. The hot
iron core at the center, not large enough to collapse further, spun viciously. The
rotating beacon of high-pitched sound rattled against Sirtot like pellets as it strafed
him with radiation.

Sirtot knew how unlikely it was that a new black pond would form to add to
his lone source of nourishment, but in these final days, hope had not quite died. He
basked momentarily in the expanding plasma, sensing its movement and absorbing
its heat. It was so rare.

Later, after the plasma had stretched its darkening tendrils across the unending
reaches, and indeed, no second pond had emerged, Sirtot returned his
consciousness to his pond, a cool shoal in a frigid sea. Its rim had calmed since his
trip. Reaching out he prodded surrounding dust and darkened lumps of dead
star-stuff into its depths. The blue glow as they spiraled around and around, and