"James Patrick Kelly - The Prisoner of Chillon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kelly James Patrick)

between the lake and a steep mountainside.
Django hesitated at the barrier blocking the wooden footbridge to the
castle. "It stinks," he said.
"You're a rose?"
"I mean the setup. Poetry was bad enough. But this" -- he pointed up at
the crumbling towers of Chillon, brooding beside the moonlit water -- "is
fairy dust. Who does he think he is? Count Dracula?"
"Only way you're going to find out is to knock on the door and..."
A light on the far side of the bridge came on. Through the entrance to
Chillon hopped a pair of oversized dice on pogo sticks.
 "Easy, Django," I said. He had the penlight ready, "Give it a chance."
Each machine was a white plastic cube about half a meter on a side; the
pips were sensors. The legs telescoped at two beats per second; the round
rubber feet hit the wooden deck in unison. _Thwocka-thwocka-thwock_.
"Snake-eyes." There was a single sensor on each of the faces closest to
us. Django gave a low, ugly laugh as he swung a leg over the barrier and
stepped onto the bridge.
They hopped up to him and bounced in place for several beats, as if
sizing him up. "Je suis desole," said the one nearest to us in a pleasant
masculine voice, "mais le chateau n'est plus ouvert au public."
"Hey, you in there." Django ignored it and instead shook his penlight
at the gatehouse on the far side of the bridge. "I've been through too much to
play with your plugging robots, understand? I want to see you -- now -- or I'm
walking."
"I am not a robot." The thing sounded indignant. "I am a wiseguy, an
inorganic sentience capable of autonomous action."
"Wiseguy. Sure." Django jabbed at his cuff and it emitted a
high-pitched squeal of code. "Now you know who I am. So what's it going to
be?"
"This way, please," said the lead wiseguy, bouncing backward toward the
gatehouse. "Please refrain from taking pictures without express permission."
I assumed that was meant for me and I didn't like it one bit. I
clambered over the barricade and followed Django.
Just before we passed through Chillon's outer wall, the other wiseguy
began to lecture. "As we enter, notice the tower to your left. The Strong
Tower, which controls the entrance to the castle, was originally built in 1402
and was reconstructed following the earthquake of 1585." _Thwock-thwocka_. It
had all the personality of Infoline's fact checker.
I glanced at Django. In the gloom I could see his face twist in
disbelief as the wiseguy continued its spiel.
"As we proceed now into the gatehouse ward, look back over your
shoulder at the inside of the eastern wall. The sundial you see is a
twentieth-century restoration of an original that dated back to the Savoy
period. The Latin, _'Sic Vita Fugit_,' on the dial translates roughly as 'Thus
life flies by.'"
We had entered a small, dark courtyard. I could hear water splashing
and could barely make out the shadow of a fountain. The wiseguys lit the way
to another, larger courtyard and then into one of the undamaged buildings.
They bounced up a flight of stairs effortlessly. I had to hurry to keep up and
was the last to enter the Great Banqueting Hall. The beauty and strangeness of