"James Patrick Kelly - The Propagation Of Light In A Vacuum" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kelly James Patrick)

while but I'm resigned to blindness now. Whatever's out there can't be
observed from in here, at least so long as reason holds its tenuous sway.
It has to do with the Uncertainty Principle, I think. The only way to
truly understand is to participate in the phenomenon, become one with the
event itself. Through the airlock, what do you say? The leap of faith.
(There's no way of knowing.)
No, I suppose not. Sometimes I wish the screens would show Varina's ghost
or burning babies on meathooks or Jesus Christ transfigured. I could
accept any of those. Because I don't believe that there's nothing out
there. Maybe the instruments aren't sensitive enough to register the
absolute, but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist. We have to find a way to
go beyond our limitations.
But first, let's eat.
(Will you put some clothes on? You shouldn't be walking around naked.
They'll get the wrong impression.)
Yes, my sweet. See how she clings to convention? But I love her anyway. We
can stop by the room on the way to the galley. I do feel a chill.
Dinner is always the highlight. Stimulate the senses with food stylings
and the mind with sharp wit. I allow myself two meals a day, breakfast and
dinner. I have to watch my weight; I really don't get enough exercise
prowling around the ship. Since she doesn't eat, my imaginary wife usually
tells funny stories during dinner. My favorite is the one about the
whitewater canoeing course we took. She laughs about it now, but
apparently we were almost drowned. What a disaster! And then there was the
time she played that joke on her sister with the wasps' nest.
(I don't think she ever forgave me for that one.)
I'm going to make my specialty again. I hope you like meatloaf. I can't
remember, have I shown you my room yet? It's not as big as the project
manager's, not as tech as the captain's quarters. I suppose I could move,
but this place has sentimental value. Besides, maybe they'll come back
someday; I wouldn't want you to think I doubted them. I still keep
Varina's clothes in the locker. And this is a picture of us on our fifth
anniversary. Let's see, I was thirty-four then, which would make her
thirty-eight. We married late. And the bed that we never slept in. When I
look at it now, I wonder how we both could have fit. We would have been at
each other's throats before long; I like to stretch out at night. All
right. Shirt, pants, I'm even wearing slippers. Satisfied?
(You look wonderful.)
I'll run ahead and start cooking then. Keep them busy for a few minutes,
will you? I'll see you all in the mess.
(How does he seem to you? I'm worried about him. He's been brittle lately,
like a glass angel. Nothing I do makes him happy. Not like before. He was
very upset at first, but at least he'd let me comfort him. When he stopped
trying to remember what happened, I thought that was progress. He wanted
to accept our situation -- make the best of it. But month after month
passed and there was no relief. I know that depressed him. And then he
lost control of time. He started swinging back and forth, skipping ahead
to see if anything had changed, going back to the moment he woke up alone
and reliving it all again. I don't know what he needs anymore. I do my
best to keep smiling. I tell him how wonderful he is. And it's whatever he