"Robert Reed - Hatch" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Robert)

тАЬI meant plain simple beauty,тАЭ the young man continued. тАЬIтАЩm talking about
art, about visual poetry. IтАЩm thinking about a magnificent show per-formed for a
very special audience.тАЭ

тАЬYou might be the only soul holding that opinion,тАЭ Hawking counseled.

тАЬAnd I feel honored because of it,тАЭ Peregrine had laughed.

The PolypondтАЩs atmosphere was full of motion and energy, and it was
ex-ceptionally loud. Camouflaged microphones set near the base of the rocket
nozzle sent home the constant roar of wind sounds and mouth sounds, thunder from
living clouds and the musical whine of great wings. But even richer than the air was
the watery terrain beneath: tens of kilometers deep, the PolypondтАЩs body was built
from melted comets mixed with rock and metal stolen from vanished worlds. This
was an ocean in the same sense that a human body was mere salt water. Yes, it was
liquid, but jammed full of structure and purpose. Alien tissues supplied muscles and
spines and ribs, and there were regions serving roles not unlike those of human
hearts and livers and lungs. Long, sophisticated membranes were dotted with giant
fusion reactors. And drifting on the surface were island-sized organs that spat out
free-living entitiesтАФwinged entities that would gather in huge flocks and sometimes
rise en masse, millions and even billions of them soar-ing higher than any cloud.

Hatches, those events were called.

What Peregrine knewтАФwhat every person in his trade understoodтАФwas that
each hatch was a unique event, and the great majority were worthless. Sending a fleet
of raiders that returned with only a few thousand tons of winged muscle and odd
enzymes... well, that was a waste of their limited power, and always a potential waste
of lives. What mattered were those rare hatches that rose high enough to be reached
cheaply, and even then it didnтАЩt pay to send raiders if there wasnтАЩt some respectable
chance of acquiring hyperfiber or rare elements, or best of all, machines that could
be harvested and tamed, then set to work in whatever role the city demanded.
 Judging a hatchтАЩs value was three parts diagnosis, two parts art, and,
inevi-tably, ten parts good fortune. Telescopes tied into dim-witted machines did
nothing but happily stuff data into shapes that brighter AIs could analyze. Whatever
was promising or peculiar was sent to the raider leaders. The average day brought
ten or fifteen events worthy of closer examination, and because of his service
record, Peregrine was given first glance at those candidates. But even with ripe
pickings, he often did nothing. Other raiders flying their own ships would dive into
the high atmosphere every few days. But sometimes weeks passed without Peregrine
once being tempted to sit in the pilotтАЩs padded chair.

тАЬI want to grow old in this job,тАЭ he confessed whenever his bravery was
questioned. тАЬMost souls canтАЩt do what I do. Most of you are too brave, and bravery
is suicide. Fearlessness is a handicap. Chasing every million-wing flight of
catabolites or sky-spinners is the quickest way to go bankrupt, if youтАЩre lucky. Or
worse, die.тАЭ

тАЬThat is a reasonable philosophy,тАЭ his friend mentioned, speaking through the
voice box sewn into a convenient neural center.