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

a strange buzzing. I tilt my head like a dog. I look around for a fly. Could it be that IтАЩve blinked without
realizing and reconfigured my eardrums in some odd way? Then movement catches my eye. A
black-and-silver thing hardly bigger than a pinhead whirs past my nose, and I see that SaulтАЩs busy
controlling it with a palette heтАЩs got on his lap at the far end of the sofa. Some new game.
I slide my legs down off the sofa. IтАЩm sitting up, and suddenly feeling almost normal. Sleeping in the
afternoon usually leaves me feeling ten years olderтАФlike a corpseтАФbut this particular sleep has actually
done me some good. The nauseaтАЩs gone. AgathaтАЩs kneeling beside me, and SaulтАЩs playing with his toy.
IтАЩm bright-eyed, bushy tailed. I feel like a ninety-year-old.
I say, тАЬI was speaking this morning to Antonio.тАЭ
тАЬAntonio, Papa?тАЭ AgathaтАЩs forehead crinkles with puzzlement.
тАЬHeтАЩs a man in a shop,тАЭ I say. тАЬI mean, you donтАЩt know him. He runs a bakery in the port.тАЭ
тАЬAnyway, Papa,тАЭ Agatha prompts sweetly, тАЬwhat were you saying to him?тАЭ
тАЬI told him that you were stayingтАФmy grandchildrenтАФand he asked how old you were. The thing is,
I wasnтАЩt quite sure.тАЭ
тАЬCanтАЩt you guess?тАЭ
I gaze at her. Why do she and Saul always want to turn everything into a game?
тАЬIтАЩm sorry, Papa,тАЭ she relents. тАЬI shouldnтАЩt tease. IтАЩm twenty-eight and a half now, and SaulтАЩs
thirty-two and three-quarters.тАЭ
тАЬSeven eighths,тАЭ Saul says without taking his eyes off the buzzing pinhead as it circles close to the
open windows. тАЬAnd youтАЩd better not forget my birthday.тАЭ The pinhead zooms back across the room. тАЬI
mean you, Ag. Not Papa. Papa never forgetsтАжтАЭ
The pinhead buzzes close to Agatha, brushing strands of her hair, almost touching her nose. тАЬLook,
Saul,тАЭ she snaps, standing up, stamping her foot. тАЬCanтАЩt you turn that bloody thing off?тАЭ
Saul smiles and shakes his head. Agatha reaches up to grab it, but SaulтАЩs too quick. He whisks it
away. It loops the loop. SheтАЩs giggling now, and SaulтАЩs shoulders are shaking with mirth as she dashes
after it across the room.
Nodding, smiling palely, I watch my grandchildren at play.
тАЬWhat is that thing, anyway?тАЭ I ask as they finally start to tire.
тАЬItтАЩs a metacam, Papa.тАЭ Saul touches a control. The pinhead stops dead in the middle of the room.
Slowly turning, catching the pale evening light on facets of silver, it hovers, waiting for a new command.
тАЬWeтАЩre just pissing around.тАЭ
Agatha flops down in a chair. She says, тАЬPapa, itтАЩs the latest thing. DonтАЩt say you havenтАЩt seen them
on the news?тАЭ
I shake my head. Even on the old flatscreen TV I keep in the corner, everything nowadays comes
across like a rock music video. And the endless good news just doesnтАЩt feel right to me, raised as I was
on a diet of war and starving Africans.
тАЬWhat does it do?тАЭ I ask.
тАЬWell,тАЭ Saul says, тАЬthis metacam shows the effects of multiple waveform collapse. LookтАжтАЭ Saul
shuffles toward me down the length of the sofa, the palette still on his lap. тАЬThat buzzing thing up there is a
multi-lens, and I simply control it from down hereтАФтАЭ
тАЬтАФthatтАЩs amazing.тАЭ I say. тАЬWhen I was young they used to have pocket camcorders you couldnтАЩt
even get in your pocket. Not unless you had one made specially. The pockets, I mean. Not the
camerasтАжтАЭ
Saul keeps smiling through my digression. тАЬBut itтАЩs not just a camera, Papa, and anyway you could
get ones this size fifteen years ago.тАЭ He touches the palette on his lap, and suddenly a well of brightness
tunnels down from it, seemingly right through and into the floor. Then the brightness resolves into an
image. тАЬYou see? ThereтАЩs Agatha.тАЭ
I nod. And there, indeed, she is: three-dee on the palette screen on SaulтАЩs lap. Agatha. Prettier than a
picture.
I watch Agatha on the palette as she gets up from the chair. She strolls over to the windows. The