"Julian May - The Intervention" - читать интересную книгу автора (May Julian)

HANOVER, NEW HAMPSHIRE, EARTH
17 FEBRUARY 2113

THE PROVERBIAL FEBRUARY thaw did not materialize for the 203rd annual Dartmouth
Winter Carnival, and the temperature was around -10░ Celsius when Uncle Rogi Remillard
emerged from the sanctuary of the Peter Christian Tavern into a blustery, festive night.
Cheered by a late supper of turkey-apple soup and a Vermont cheddar omelette, not to
mention a liberal intake of spirits, he was damned if he would let the Family Ghost keep him
from the fireworks display. The thing couldn't possibly do anything blatant in the midst of
such a mob.
The northeast wind blew leftover snow about thronged Main Street and down the
tavern's stairwell. Rogi had to push past revelers who tried to crowd down the steps as he
climbed up. When the full blast caught him, he gave his long red-wool muffler an extra twist
to wrap it partially about his head. Thick grizzled hair stuck out of the scarf folds like a
scraggly fright wig. Uncle Rogi was tall, skinny, and slightly stooped. His youthful face was
disfigured by great bags under the eyes and a slightly mashed nose, which dripped when
forced to inhale the arctic air of unmodified New Hampshire winters. More fastidious
Remillards had long since given up pleading with Rogi to fix himself up. The family image?
╟a ne chie pas!
He stood in the partial shelter of the tavern building and looked warily around. The
melting grids for both the streets and sidewalks of downtown Hanover had been turned off to
preserve a properly old-fashioned atmosphere for the celebration. A six-horse team pulling a
snow-roller had tamped down the worst ruts; and now sleighs, farm wagons full of hay and
carousing students, and chuffing antique autos equipped with antique tire chains drove toward
the College Green in anticipation of the pyrotechnics display. No modern vehicles were in
sight. One could imagine it was the 1990s again... except that among the human pedestrians in
their reproduction winter gear from L. L. Bean and Eddie Bauer were slower-moving groups
of exotic tourists from the nonhuman worlds of the Galactic Milieu. All but the hardy little
Poltroyans were snugly sealed inside environmental suits with visors closed against the harsh
Earth weather. The Poltroyans romped and chortled in the stinging cold, and wore fish-fur
mukluks and oversized Dartmouth souvenir sweat shirts over their traditional robes.
Rogi searched the night, using his watering eyes rather than his farscan ultrasense. The
damn Ghost was too clever a screener to be spotted with the mind's eye - or at least his
mind's eye. Perhaps the thing had given up and gone away. God, he hoped so! After leaving
him in peace for thirty years it had given him a nasty shock, accosting him there in the
bookshop just as he was getting ready to close up. He had fled out into the street and it had
followed, importuning him, all the way to the eter Christian Tavern.
"Are you still here, mon fantЇme?" Rogi muttered into his scarf. "Or did it get too cold
for you, waiting outside? Silly thing. Who'd notice a ghost in a crowded bar with mulled cider
and hot buttered rum flowing like Ammonoosuc Falls? Who'd notice a dozen ghosts?"
Something insubstantial stirred in the tiny plaza fronting the Nugget Cinema just south
of the tavern. Whirling powder snow seemed for a moment to slide over and around a certain
volume of empty air.
Bon sang! It had waited for him, all right. Rogi farspoke it:
Hello again. Beats me, Ghost, why you don't simply put on a psychocreative body and
sit down to supper with me like a civilized being. Other Lylmik do it.
The Ghost said: There are too many alumni operants in the Peter Christian tonight.
Even a Grand Master or two. In their cups, the older ones might be unpredictably insightful.
"And that would never do, eh? Some really big operator might see through you in the
worst way!" Rogi's whisper was scathing and his mental faчade, fortified with Dutch courage,