"Julian May - Diamond Mask" - читать интересную книгу автора (May Julian)

to the parameters of the prey, could zero in on it as it sat mostly concealed behind the trunk of
a diminutive tree. The bull's-eye blinked triumphant scarlet. The old man cut out the targeter,
cautiously shifted position once more, and the bird was clearly revealed in the camera's view-
finder: a chunky black creature 20 cents long, seeming to stare fiercely at him from its perch on
the scraggly lehua tree. Tufts of brilliant yellow feathers adorned its upper legs like gaudy
knickers peeping out from beneath an otherwise somber avian outfit. The bird flicked its pointed
tail as if annoyed at having been disturbed and the old man experienced a rush of pure joy.
It was the rarest of all nonretroevolved Hawaiian birds, with a name that tripped ludicrously
from the tongues of Standard English speakers: the elusive o'o-a'a!
Nearly beside himself, the old birdwatcher used the imager zoom control, composed his shot,
and pressed the video activator. Before he could take a second picture the o'o-a'a repeated its
double-noted alarm call almost derisively, spread its wings, and flew off in the direction of
Mount Waialeale.
The rainbow had faded as a new batch of dark clouds rolled in from the east. In another
fifteen minutes or so the sun would set behind the twisted dwarf forest and the Hawaiian night
would slam down with its usual abruptness. He had barely found the bird in time.
He touched the PRINT pad of the camera. A few seconds later, a durofilm photo with exquisite
color detail slipped out of the instrument into his hand. He stared at the precious picture, now
curiously dispassionate, and heaved a sigh as he unzipped his rain jacket and tucked the trophy
into the breast pocket of his shirt.
A voice spoke to him from out of the steamy air:
What's this, Uncle Rogi? In a melancholy mood after your great triumph?
Rogatien Remillard looked up in surprise, then growled a halfhearted Franco-American epithet.
"Merde de merde ... so you couldn't let me celebrate my hundred-and-sixty-eighth birthday in
peace, eh, Ghost?"
The voice was gently chiding: You have done soтАФand received a fine present besides.
"You didn't!" the old man exclaimed indignantly. "You didn't chivvy that poor little bird
here on purpose, just so I'd find itтАФ"
Certainly not. What do you take me for?
"Hah! I take you for an exotic bully, mon cher fant├┤me, that's what. Not even a week since I


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turned off the transcriber, and here you are breathing down my neck. Go ahead: deny that you came
to nag me to get on with my memoirs."
I don't deny it, Uncle Rogi. And I realize that the work is hard for you. But it's necessary
that you resume writing the family chronicle without delay. It must be completed before this year
is out.
"Why the tearing hurry? Does your goddam Lylmik crystal ball foresee that I'm gonna kick the
bucket come New Year's Eve? Is that why you keep the pressure on? I've had a sneaking suspicion
about that ever since I finished the Intervention section. You and your almighty schemes! What's
the plan? You squeeze my poor old failing brain like a sponge, then toss me on the discard heap
once you get what you want?"
Nonsense. How many times must I tell you? You are immune to the normal processes of human
aging and degenerative disease. You have the self-rejuvenating gene complex, just as all the other
Remillards do.
"Except Ti-Jean!" Rogi snapped. "Anyway ... I could always be destined to die in some
accident that you and your gang of galactic snoops in Orb prolepticate, and that's why the mad