"M. John Harrison - Viriconium 1 - The Pastel City" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison John M)

played in a mode forgotten by all but himself and
certain desert musicians, and his thoughts were
not with the music.
From the curved window of the room he could
see out over the rowans and the gnarled thorn to
the road that ran from the unfortunate city to
Duirinish in the north-east. Viriconium itself was
a smoke-haze above the eastern horizon and an
unpleasant vibration in the foundations of the
tower. He saw a launch rise out of that haze, a
speck like a trick of the eye.
It was well-known in the alleys of the city, and
in remoter places, that, when tegeus-Cromis was
nervous or debating within himself, his right hand
strayed constantly to the pommel of his nameless
sword: then was hardly the time to strike: and
there was no other. He had never noticed it
himself. He put down his instrument and went
over to the window.
The launch gained height, gyring slowly: flew
a short way north while Cromis strained his eyes,
and then began to make directly toward
Balmacara. For a little while, it appeared to be
stationary, merely growing larger as it neared the
tower.
When it came close enough to make out detail,
Cromis saw that its faceted crystal hull had been
blackened by fire, and that a great rift ran the full
length of its starboard side. Its power plant (the
secret of which, like many other things, had been
lost a thousand years before the rise of
Viriconium, so that Cromis and his
contemporaries lived on the corpse of an ancient
science, dependent on the enduring relics of a
dead race) ran with a dreary insectile humming
where it should have been silent. A pale halo of
St. Elmo's Fire crackled from its bow to its stern,
coruscating. Behind the shattered glass of its
canopy, Cromis could see no pilot, and its flight
was erratic: it yawed and pitched aimlessly, like a
water-bird on a quiet current.
Cromis' knuckles stood out white against the
sweat-darkened leather of his sword hilt as the
vehicle dived, spun wildly, and lost a hundred feet
in less than a second. It scraped the tops of the
rowans, shuddered like a dying animal, gained a
few precious, hopeless feet. It ploughed into the
wood, discharging enormous sparks, its motors
wailing. A smell of ozone was in the air.
Before the wreckage had hit the ground,