"Recording Angel" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mcauley Paul J)

hardly understands what they mean, for all the time he has lived with these
people.
He has been allowed to pass through the crowd with the citizens' usual generous
deference, and now stands close to the edge of the whirling cloud of machines
which defends the dock, twenty paces or so from the magistrates who nervously
swish their quirts to and fro. The crowd's thick yeasty odour fills his
nostrils; its humming disquiet, modulating up and down, penetrates to the marrow
of his bones. Now and then a machine ignites a flare of light that sweeps over
the front ranks of the crowd, and the eyes of the men and women shine blankly
orange, like so many little sparks.
At last the ship passes the temple complex at the upriver edge of the city, its
wedge rising like a wave above the temple's clusters of slim spiky towers. The
lighter's engines go into reverse; waves break in whitecaps on the steps beyond
the whirl of machines and the grim line of magistrates.
The crowd's hum rises in pitch. Mr Naryan finds himself carried forward as it
presses towards the barrier defined by the machines. The people around him
apologise effusively for troubling him, trying to minimise contact with him in
the press as snails withdraw from salt.
The machines' whirl stratifies, and the magistrates raise their quirts and shout
a single word lost in the noise of the crowd. The people in the front rank of
the crowd fall to their knees, clutching their eyes and wailing: the machines
have shut down their optic nerves.
Mr Naryan, shown the same deference by the machines as by the citizens, suddenly
finds himself isolated amongst groaning and weeping citizens, confronting the
row of magistrates. One calls to him, but he ignores the man.
He has a clear view of the ship, now. It has come to rest a league away, at the
far end of the docks, but Mr Naryan has to tip his head back and back to see the
top of the ship's tiers. It is as if a mountain has drifted against the edge of
the city.
A new sound drives across the crowd, as a wind drives across a field of wheat.
Mr Naryan turns and, by the random flare of patrolling machines, is astonished
to see how large the crowd has grown. It fills the long plaza, and more people
stand on the rooftops along its margin. Their eyes are like a harvest of stars.
They are all looking towards the ship, where Dreen, standing on a cargo sled,
ascends to meet the crew.
Mr Naryan hooks the wire frames of his spectacles over his ears, and the crew
standing on top of the black ship snap into clear focus.
There are fifteen, men and women all as tall as Angel. They loom over Dreen as
he welcomes them with effusive gestures. Mr Naryan can almost smell Dreen's
anxiety. He wants the crew to take Angel away, and order restored. He will be
telling them where to find her.
Mr Naryan feels a pang of anger. He turns and makes his way through the crowd.
When he reaches its ragged margin, everyone around him suddenly looks straight
up. Dreen's sled sweeps overhead, carrying his guests to the safety of the
floating habitat above the pink sandstone palace. The crowd surges forward --
and all the little machines fall from the air!
One lands close to Mr Naryan, its carapace burst open at the seams. Smoke pours
from it. An old woman picks it up -- Mr Naryan smells her burnt flesh as it
sears her hand -- and throws it at him.
Her shot goes wide. Mr Naryan is so astonished that he does not even duck. He