"Nancy Kress - Steamship Soldier on the Information Front" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kress Nancy)

Allan studied Techs/Mex Chili. "What do your download-source traces show?"
 "Not much," Sanderson said, and Allan saw that his previous evasiveness had been
embarrassment. Programmers hated not knowing what was going on in their programs. "Or,
rather, too much. They're apparently accessing all sorts of stuff, bits of everything on the
Net, maybe even at random. At least, we haven't found any patterns yet."
"Umm," Allan said noncommittally. "Squirt the full trace files to my office. Our people will
look at it as well."
"I don't really have the authori -- "
"Just do it," Allan said, but for once the tone of command didn't work. Sanderson looked
scared but determined.
"No, sir, I'm afraid I can't. Not without Skaka's say-so."
Allan capitulated. "All right. I'll call her myself."
The young programmer looked relieved. Allan went on studying the quiet robots in their
gaudy, silly paint, guarding their bucket of totally useless chips.


He couldn't reach Skaka Gupta, so he left her a message to call him. His flight was delayed,
and it was well past midnight before the car left him in front of the unfamiliar apartment
building in Kansas City. No, not unfamiliar ... it looked comfortingly like the one in Oakland, the
one in Denver, the one in Aspen, the one in New Orleans, the one in Atlanta, the one in
Raleigh ...
Mrs. Canning, alerted by the security system, let him in, then stumbled sleepily back to
bed. He checked on Suzette, lying with both arms flung out at her side and one knee bent,
looking energetic even in sleep. Her hair had grown. Allan went next to the room Charlie
always had.
The boy stirred and mumbled as Allan entered. "Hi, Dad."
"Hey, son."
"What ... what the reason?"
"The reason for what, Charlie?" Allan said gently, but Charlie was already back to sleep.
For several minutes, Allan watched him. Cathy's light fine hair, Allan's beaky nose, Charlie's
own individual chin. His son. On his tablet Allan had the name of a good child psychologist in
Kansas City. Just don't let it be neurological, he prayed formlessly. Not a neurological
degeneration, not a brain tumor, not any problem they could do nothing about. Not my Charlie
.
In his own bedroom, which he found located where his bedrooms always were, Allan
couldn't sleep. He reviewed the data for the next day's meetings, both local so he could spend
more time with Charlie. He did some sit-up's and stretches, and then he tossed in the new,
familiar bed.
His son sitting and staring into space, unreachable by ordinary communication ...
The robots, refusing to turn in their chips ...
Tomorrow's meetings, half the data for which he'd already forgotten ... He didn't really
want to attend any of them anyway. Same old, same old ... No, what was he thinking? None
of it was the same old. It was all interesting new breakthroughs, beachheads on the newest
fronts, and he was privileged to have a part in scouting them out ... So why did he just want
to stay huddled forever in this familiar apartment he'd never seen before? Damn, he hated it
when he couldn't sleep!
Groping beside his bed, Allan picked up his meshNet. Just holding it, unwrapping it, knowing
all the information it put at his command, made him feel better instantly. At night the system
didn't signal his messages, merely stored them until he was done sleeping. Maybe there was
something from Cathy.