"Michael Moorcock - The Time Dweller" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moorcock Michael)

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The Time Dweller
A short stories collection by Michael Moorcock
Version 1.0

THE TIME DWELLER

DUSK HAD COME to the universe, albeit the small universe
inhabited by Man. The sun of Earth had dimmed, the moon
had retreated and salt clogged the sluggish oceans, filled the
rivers that toiled slowly between white, crystalline banks, beneath
darkened, moody skies that slumbered in eternal evening.

Of course, in the sun's long life this stage was merely one
interlude. In perhaps a few thousand years, it would flare to
full splendour again. But for the meantime it kept its light
in close rein, grumbling in its mighty depths and preparing
itself for the next step in its evolution.

It had taken time in its fading and those few creatures who
had remained on its planets had managed to adapt. Among them
was Man, indefatigable; undeserving, really, considering the
lengths he had gone to, in previous epochs, to dispose of him-
self. But here he was, in his small universe consisting of one
planet without even the satellite which had slid away into space
long since and, in its passing, left legends on his lips.

Brown clouds, brown light, brown rocks and brown ocean
flecked with white. A pale rider on a pale beast thumping
along the shore, the dry taste of ocean salt in his mouth, the
stink of a dead oozer in his nostrils.

His name was the Scar-faced Brooder, son of the Sleepy-
eyed Smiler, his father and the Pinch-cheeked Worrier, his
mother. The seal-beast he rode was called Urge. Its glossy coat
was still sleek with the salt-rain that had recently ceased, its
snout pointed eagerly forward and its two strong leg-fins
thwacked the encrusted shore as it galloped along, dragging its
razor-edged tail with scant effort. The Scar-faced Brooder was

supported on his steed's sloping back by a built-up saddle of
polished silicon that flashed whenever it reflected the salt-
patches studding the ground like worn teeth. In his head, held
at its butt by a stirrup grip, was his long gun, the piercer with
an everlasting ruby as its life. He was dressed in sealskin dyed
in sombre rust-red and dark yellow.

Behind him, the Scar-faced Brooder heard the sound of
another rider, one whom he had tried to avoid since morning.