"Daniel Keys Moran - Armageddon Blues" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moran Daniel Keys)

at it, and besides, the car radio was competing; the Beatles were singing "I Want To Hold Your Hand."
Georges was whistling "Marseillaise." It did not occur to him to turn the radio off. (To be fair, it is not
likely that he could have turned the radio off.)

Georges whistled, driving north. The Pacific Ocean sparkled in the sunshine off to his left. He smiled
quite a lot.

How likely is it that the world's only time traveler would encounter Georges Mordreaux?

Not very. But then, there are things that are more improbable. That an object should spontaneously gain
more energy, assume a more orderly pattern, is vastly more unlikely-and yet, still possible. In a world
ruled by quanmechanics, there are no certainties; entropy is a function of probability theory.

One might best consider Georges Mordreaux as an improbability locus.

There.

Forty miles north of San Luis Obispo, Georges Mordreaux saw a hitchhiker walking briskly along the
right shoulder of the highway. A second closer look altered his impression slightly. Walking along the
roadside, yes; but she was not a hitchhiker. She paid no attention to the cars skimming by her on the
freeway.

The drivers passing her certainly paid attention to her; they were almost unable to do otherwise. She
stood out from her surroundings like a Corvichi fusion torch at night. She was dressed in a white
jumpsuit, and carried a light blue satchel on one shoulder. Her hair hung to the small of her back, long
and straight and undeniably white, reflecting the sunlight brilliantly. Her skin, where the rolled sleeves of
the jumpsuit showed the flesh of the arms, was bleached-white, with little pink in its makeup. The
jumpsuit legs were tucked into the tops of calf-high black boots.

Georges smiled to himself absently, and brought the Camaro to a halt next to the girl. He leaned over
and called out through the right-hand window.
"Do you need a ride, miss?"

The girl continued to walk when he stopped the car; she did not turn when he spoke to her, in a voice
that held faint traces of a French accent.

Georges called, "Miss?" a bit more loudly.

Jalian d'Arsennette y ken Selvren turned around, intending to inform this stranger that she was quite
content walking. She would do so in the iciest tone of voice of which she was capable, which was
considerably so

/light blue eyes smiling at me and there is power that shines on him and pours from him broad shoulders
plain face and the power the power he is smiling at meтАж/

/silver eyesтАж/

when something strange happened.

"Freeways," said' Jalian d'Arsennette, in an accent that Georges had never heard the like of before, with