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

the shore in a thousand different ways. The sky shivers. A seagull flies over, mewing, breaking into a
starburst of wings. Grey comet-tailed things that might be ghosts, people, for all I knowтАФthe product of
my own addled and enhanced senses, blur by across the shore.
тАЬYouтАЩve got implant corneas, havenтАЩt you, Papa?тАЭ Saul says. тАЬI could probably rig things up so you
could have the metacam projected directly into your eyes.тАЭ
 тАЬNo thanks,тАЭ I say.
Probably remembering what happened to the VR, Saul doesnтАЩt push it.
I look down in wonder. тАЬThis isтАжтАЭ
What? Incredible? Impossible? Unreal?
тАЬThis isтАжтАЭ
Saul touches the palette screen again. He cancels out the breaking, shattering waves. And Agatha
calls the vendor for an ice cream, and somehow itтАЩs a shock when she pushes the cool cone into my
hand. I have to hold it well out of the way, careful not to drip over the palette.
тАЬThis isтАжтАЭ
And my ice creams falls, splattering SaulтАЩs arm.
Agatha leans over. тАЬHere, let me. IтАЩll turn that off, Papa.тАЭ
тАЬYes, do.тАЭ
ThereтАЩs nothing left on the palette now, anyway. Just a drop of ice cream, and the wide empty beach.
The screen blanks at AgathaтАЩs touch, and the pinhead camera shoots down from a sky that suddenly
seems much darker, cooler. Immense purple-grey clouds are billowing over the sea. The yachts and the
flyers are turning for home. Agatha and Saul begin to pack our stuff away.
тАЬIтАЩll drive the car home, Papa,тАЭ Agatha says, helping me from the deckchair just as I feel the first
heavy drops of rain.
тАЬButтАжтАЭ
They take an arm each. They half-carry me across the sand and up the slope to the end of the beach
road where IтАЩve parkedтАФbadly I now seeтАФthe Ford.
тАЬButтАжтАЭ
They put me down, and unhesitatingly unfold the FordтАЩs complex hood. They help me in.
тАЬButтАжтАЭ
They wind up the windows and turn on the headlights just as the first grey veils strike the shore. The
wipers flap, the rain drums. Even though sheтАЩs never driven before in her life, Agatha spins the FordтАЩs
wheel and shoots uphill through the thickening mud, crashing through the puddles toward the hairpin.
Nestled against Saul in the back seat, too tired to complain, I fall asleep.


That evening, we go dancing. Saul. Agatha. Papa.
There are faces. Gleaming bodies. Parakeet colors. Looking through the rooftops of the port into the
dark sky, I can see the moon. IтАЩm vaguely disappointed to find that sheтАЩs so full tonight. Since IтАЩve had
these corneas fitted, and with the air nowadays so clear, I can often make out the lights of the new
settlements when sheтАЩs hooded in shadow.
Agatha leans over the cafe table. SheтАЩs humming some indefinable tune. тАЬWhat are you looking at,
Papa?тАЭ
 тАЬThe moon.тАЭ
She gazes up herself, and the moon settles in the pools of her eyes. She blinks and half-smiles. I can
tell that Agatha really does see mystery up there. SheтАЩs sat in the bars, slept in the hotels, hired dust
buggies and gone crater-climbing. Yet she still feels the mystery.
тАЬYouтАЩve never been up there, have you, Papa?тАЭ
тАЬIтАЩve never left the Earth.тАЭ
тАЬThereтАЩs always time,тАЭ she says.
тАЬTime for what?тАЭ