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

married Meg, and Meg was like him, only more so: a child of that generation. Respectful, hardworking,
discreet, always ready to say the right thing. I think they both dealt in currency and commodities for
people who couldnтАЩt be bothered to handle their own affairs. I was never quite sure. And Meg was
always just a face and a name. Of course, their two kidsтАФwhen they finally got around to having
themтАФwere wildly different. I loved them deeply, richly. I loved them without doubt or question. For a
while, when Saul and Agatha were still children and I didnтАЩt yet need these autolegs to get around, I used
to visit Bill and Meg regularly.
Agatha runs back up the beach from her swim. She lies down and lets the sun dry her shining body.
Then itтАЩs time for the picnic, and to my relief, they both put some clothes back on. I donтАЩt recognize most
of the food they spread out on the matting. New flavors, new textures. I certainly didnтАЩt buy any of it
yesterday on my trip to the port. But anyway, itтАЩs delicious, as lovely as this day.
тАЬDid you do this in the last century, Papa?тАЭ Saul asks. тАЬI mean, have picnics on the beach?тАЭ
I shrug Yes and No. тАЬYes,тАЭ I say eventually, тАЬBut there was a problem if you sat out too long. A
problem with the sky.тАЭ
тАЬThe sky?тАЭ
Saul reaches across the mat to re-stack his plate with something sweet and crusty thatтАЩs probably as
good for you and unfattening as fresh air. He doesnтАЩt say it, but still I can tell that heтАЩs wondering how we
ever managed to get ourselves into such a mess back then, how anyone could possibly mess up
something as fundamental as the sky.
Afterward, Saul produces his metacam palette from one of the bags. It unfolds. The little pinhead
buzzes up, winking in the light.
тАЬThe sand here isnтАЩt a problem?тАЭ I ask.
тАЬSand?тАЭ
тАЬI meanтАж getting into the mechanism.тАЭ
тАЬOh, no.тАЭ
From the corner of my eye, I see Agatha raising her eyebrows. Then she plumps her cushion and lies
down in the sun. SheтАЩs humming again. Her eyes are closed, IтАЩm wondering if there isnтАЩt some music
going on inside her head that I canтАЩt even hear.
тАЬYou were saying yesterday, Saul,тАЭ I persist, тАЬthat itтАЩs more than a cameraтАжтАЭ
тАЬWell,тАЭ Saul looks up at me, and blanks the palette, weighing up just how much he can tell Papa that
Papa would understand. тАЬYou know about quantum technology, Papa, and the unified field?тАЭ
I nod encouragingly.
He tells me anyway. тАЬWhat it means is that for every event, there are a massive number of
possibilities.тАЭ
Again, I nod.
тАЬWhat happens, you see, Papa, is that you push artificial intelligence along the quantum shift to
observe these fractionally different worlds, to make the waveform collapse. ThatтАЩs where we get all the
worldтАЩs energy from nowadays, from the gradient of that minute difference. And thatтАЩs how this palette
works. It displays some of the worlds that lie close beside our own. Then it projects them forward. A
kind of animation. Like predictive suspension, only much more advancedтАжтАЭ
I nod, already losing touch. And thatтАЩs only the beginning. His explanation carries on, grows more
involved. I keep on nodding. After all, I do know a little about quantum magic. But itтАЩs all hypothetical,
technical stuff; electrons and positrons. ItтАЩs got nothing to do with real different worlds, has it?
тАЬSo it really is showing things that might have happened?тАЭ I ask when heтАЩs finally finished. тАЬIt really
isnтАЩt a trick?тАЭ
Saul glances down at his palette, then back up at me, looking slightly offended. The pinhead lens
hangs motionless in the air between us, totally ignoring the breeze. тАЬNo,тАЭ he says. тАЬItтАЩs not a trick, Papa.тАЭ
Saul shows me the palette: he even lets me rest the thing on my lap. I gaze down, and watch the
worlds divide.
The waves tumble, falling and breaking over the sand in big glassy lumps. The wind lifts the flags along