"Larry Niven & Jerry Pournelle - Fallen Angels" - читать интересную книгу автора (Niven Larry)

"Minicon is still going," Bruce said, breaking in. "It has to be going. The
last thing we need is for the cops to find a broken convention and wonder
where we all went."
"Hmm, yes." It was starting to hit her. She'd never been underground
before. Now . . . One hint and her job was done. A couple of slips and she'd
be a wanted woman. "Thor, you've been hiding out for a while-тАФ"
"Eight years." He sounded proud.
"What's it like?"
A shrug. "Not too bad, if you have friends. And if the 'danes aren't
hunting you too hard. There are folks in the midwest, farm country, who
are only too glad for a hand with the chores; room and board and no
questions asked. You try not to spend too much time in one place, though."
"No," she said. "I suppose not."
Bob glanced over his shoulder. "Having second thoughts?" he asked,
turning back to his driving.
"Sure. And third and fourth." She took her mittens off and rubbed her
hands together. "So. What are the plans once we get there?"
They all looked at her. "Plans?" said Mike in a simulated Mexican
accent. "We don' need no stinking plans."
Sherrine snorted. Fans.

They sailed west on I-94, headed for the Dakota Glacier. Bob drove
carefully, trading speed for certainty. On clear sections of the highway, he
floored it; where roadside clutter and shrubbery provided cover for police
cars, he slowed to a respectable sixty. After a while, the chatter died down
 Just past St. Joseph, Sherrine stopped singing and stared north through
the van's side window. One by one the others dropped out, their voices
dying in mid-chorus, until Mike was singing alone.
" 'I wrote Dying Inside and you snubbed it! Son of Man's out of print
totally! You'll be sorry you didn't buy Nightwings! No more damn science
fiction for me!"
Mike trailed off. Following their gaze, he twisted and looked over his
shoulder. "Great Ghu!" he said.
"Yeah," Sherrine said quietly.
The northern horizon glowed a pale, phosphorescent white, as if an
artist had drawn a chalk line across a blackboard.
Steve hopped to the other side of the van and peered through the
window. "I didn't know it was this far south," he said.
Mike peered out. "The Ice Line runs northwest from Milwaukee to
Regina. It doesn't come as close to the big cities because of the waste heat."
The California fans had never seen the Ice. They stared in respectful
silence.
Sherrine spoke up. "You can't live in the Twin Cities without feeling the
weight of the Great Ice somewhere over the horizon, flowing toward you
like crystal lava."
"Three years ago," said Bob, "you couldnтАЩt see it from the highway."
"And last year," she added, "you could only see it in midwinter." The Ice
ebbed and flowed with the seasons, like tides on a hard, white ocean. But
some of the snow that fell each winter failed to melt the next summer. The
weight in the center of the pack forced the edges to flow outward, and the