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

the great genius himself can probably hear far across the warm seas and the green rolling continents in his
unmarked grave. I suspect that the EuthonsтАЩ real interest in me lies simply in the fascination that the old
have for the truly ancientтАФlike gazing at a signpost: this is the way things will lead. But theyтАЩre still
sprightly enough, barely past one hundred. One morning last summer, I looked out and saw the Euthons
chasing each other naked around their swimming pool. Their sagging arms and breasts and bellies flapped
like featherless wings. Mrs. Euthon was shrieking like a schoolgirl and Mr. Euthon had a glistening pink
erection. I wish them luck. TheyтАЩre living this happy, golden age.
I reach the bottom of the steps and catch my breath. Parked in the shadow of my house, my old Ford
is dented, splattered with dust and dew. I only ever take it on the short drive to and from the port
nowadays, but the roads grow worse by the season, and extract an increasingly heavy price. WhoтАЩd
have thought the road surfaces would be allowed to get this bad, this far into the future? People generally
use flyers now, and what land vehicles there are have predictive suspension; theyтАЩll give you a magic
carpet ride over any kind of terrain. Me and my old car, weтАЩre too old to be even an anachronism.
I lift up the hood and gaze inside, breathing the smell of oil and dirt. Ah, good old-fashioned
engineering. V8 cylinders. Sparkplugs leading to distributor caps. Rust holes in the wheel arch. I learnt
about cars on chilly northern mornings, bit by bit as things refused to work. I can still remember most of it
more easily than what I had for lunch yesterday.
A flock of white doves clatter up and circle east, out over the silken sea toward the lime groves on
the headland. Bowed down beneath the hood, my fingers trace oiled dirt, and I find myself wishing that
the old girl actually needed fixing. But over the years, as bits and pieces have given out and fallen away,
the people at the workshop in the port have connected in new devices. IтАЩm still not sure that I believe
them when they tell me that until they are introduced into the carтАЩs system, every device is actually the
same. To me, that sounds like the kind of baloney you give to someone whoтАЩs too stupid to understand.
But the new bits soon get oiled-over nicely enough anyway, and after a while they even start to look like
the old bits theyтАЩve replaced. ItтАЩs like my own body, all the new odds and ends that Doc FanianтАЩs put in.
Eardrums, corneas, a liver, hips, a heart, joints too numerous to mention. Endless chemical implants to
make up for all the things I should be manufacturing naturally. Little nano-creatures that clean and repair
the walls of my arteries. Stuff to keep back the pain. After a while, you start to wonder just how much of
something you have to replace before it to ceases to be what it is.
тАЬFixing something, Papa?тАЭ
I look up with a start, nearly cracking my head on the underside of the hood.
Agatha.
тАЬI mean, your hands look filthy.тАЭ She stares at them, these gnarled old tree roots that Doc Fanian has
yet to replace. A little amazed. SheтАЩs in the same blouse she wore yesterday. Her hairтАЩs done up with a
ribbon.
тАЬJust fiddling around.тАЭ
тАЬYou must give me and Saul a ride.тАЭ
 тАЬIтАЩd love to.тАЭ
тАЬDid you hear us come back last night, Papa? IтАЩm sorry if we were noisyтАФand it was pretty late.тАЭ
Carved out of the gorgeous sunlight, she raises a fist and rubs at sleep-crusted eyes.
тАЬNo.тАЭ I point. тАЬThese ears.тАЭ
тАЬSo you probably missed the carnival fireworks as well. But it must be great, being able to turn
yourself off and on like that. What are they? Re or inter-active?тАЭ
I shrug. What can I sayтАж? I canтАЩt even hear fireworksтАФor my own grandchildren coming in drunk.
тАЬDid you have a good time last night?тАЭ
тАЬIt was nice.тАЭ She gazes at me, smiling. Nice. She means it. She means everything she says.
I see that sheтАЩs got wine stains on her blouse, and bits of tomato seed. As she leans over the engine, I
gaze at the crown of her head, the pale skin whorled beneath.
тАЬYou still miss Grandma, donтАЩt you, Papa?тАЭ she asks, looking up at me from the engine with oil on the
tip of her nose.