"Ian R. MacLeod - Papa" - читать интересную книгу автора (Macleod Ian R)

Papa
by Ian R. MacLeod
тАЬGrownups,тАЭ the authorтАЩs last story for AsimovтАЩs, appeared in our June 1992 issue. That
brilliantly bizarre gender-bending tale was a finalist for the James R. Tiptree, Jr. Award. In his
new story, Mr. MacLeod takes a poignant look at the questions of parenting, maturity, and aging
in a future society where life spans routinely double our own.

art: Ron Chironna
An A\NN/A Preservation Edition.
Notes

My grandchildren have brought time back to me. Even when they have gone, my house will never be
the same. Of course, I didnтАЩt hear them when they arrivedтАФon this as on many other mornings, I hadnтАЩt
bothered to turn on my eardrumsтАФbut a tingling jab from the console beside my bed finally caught my
attention. What had I been doing? Lying in the shadowed heat, watching the sea breeze lift the dappled
blinds? Not even that. I had been somewhere distant. A traveler in white empty space.
The blinds flicker. My bedhelper emerges from its wallspace, extending mantis arms for me to grab.
One heave, and IтАЩm sitting up. Another, and IтАЩm standing. The salt air pushes hot, cool. I pause to blink.
Slow, quick, with both eyes. A momentтАЩs concentration. Despite everything Doc FanianтАЩs told me, itтАЩs
never become like riding a bicycle, but then who am I, now, to ride a bike? And then my eardrums are
on, and the sound of everything leaps into me. I hear the waves, the sea, the lizards stirring on the rocks,
distant birdsong, the faint whispering trees. I hear the slow drip of the showerhead on the bathroom tiles,
and the putter of a rainbow-winged flyer somewhere up in the hot blue sky. I hear the papery breath and
heartbeat of an old man aroused from his mid-morning slumbers. And I hear voicesтАФyoung
voicesтАФoutside my front door.
тАЬHe canтАЩt be in.тАЭ
тАЬWell, he canтАЩt be outтАжтАЭ
тАЬLetтАЩsтАФтАЭ
тАЬтАФNo, you.тАЭ
тАЬIтАЩllтАФтАЭ
тАЬтАФlisten. I thinkтАжтАЭ
тАЬItтАЩs him.тАЭ
Looking down at myself, I see that, yes, I am clothed, after a fashion: shorts and a
T-shirtтАФcrumpled, but at least not the ones I slept in last night. So I did get dressed today, eat
breakfast, clean up afterward, shaveтАж.
тАЬAre you in there, Papa?тАЭ
My granddaughter AgathaтАЩs voice.
тАЬWait a moment,тАЭ I croak, sleep-stiff, not really believing. Heading for the hall.
The front door presents an obstacle. ThereтАЩs the voice recognition system my son Bill had fitted for
me. Not that anyone mugs or burgles anyone else any longer, but BillтАЩs a worrierтАФheтАЩs past eighty now,
and of that age.
тАЬAre you all right in there?тАЭ
SaulтАЩs voice this time.
тАЬYes, IтАЩm fine.тАЭ
The simple routine of the voicecode momentarily befuddles me. The tiny screen says User Not
Recognized. I try again, and then again, but my voice is as dry as my limbs are until the lubricants get
working. My grandchildren can hear me outside, and I know theyтАЩll think PapaтАЩs talking to himself.
At last. My front door swings open.
Saul and Agatha. Both incredibly real in the morning brightness with the cypressed road shimmering
behind them. I want them to stand there for a few moments so I can catch my breathтАФand for the