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

began, and when and how it shall end. Humans taught themselves these great lessons. The gods never
helped us. And for each of us--for the universe and for humans alike--what lies between birth and death
is an unrelenting tedium spiced with the occasional sweet novelty."
The driver mutters under his breath, and the taxi door slams shut.

"My pack," the passenger cries out. "Or are you a thief?"

A window drops, and out tumbles a small transparent backpack. Then with a choked voice, the driver
screams, "Monster," as he pulls away from the curb, wringing all of the speed from his vehicle's fuel cells,
leaving behind a whiff of perfumed moisture that lingers in the bright sunny air.

The monster stands alone on the sidewalk, laughing quietly. Less than a meter tall and not quite eighteen
kilos, he wears blue running shoes adorned with daisies and white socks with frills and a stained Pooh
shirt and dark blue shorts that bulge with the diaper. His skin is pale and smooth. His knees bow out a
little bit. He seems to be thirty or thirty-two months old, except in the face. The brown eyes are busy and
smart, while the tiny mouth wears a perpetual smirk, as if the world around him is both humorous and
contemptible, in equal measures.

Inside his backpack are supplies for his day: a folded reader and an old-fashioned cell phone, several
spare diapers and wipes, snacks on edible plates, a press-wrapped change of clothes, and a
police-grade taser. His electronic money is tucked inside his current diaper--the first place a thief would
look, but he has already peed enough to fend off those with weak wills.

The monster--he goes by Cabe--slips on the pack's plastic straps and sets off, walking north with a
determined gait. The pack rattles softly. The daisies on his shoes flash random colors with each step.
Other pedestrians take note. Those few who recognize him pretend not to notice. But others see a child,
and they can't help but smile at his cuteness, instinct leading the way while the brain sluggishly notes the
little details that are wrong. Then instinct fades into a clumsy puzzlement, and sometimes, intrigue. People
are generally idiots, but they are not entirely uninformed. What this creature represents is new and will
remain new and fresh for some time. But in another ten years, or twenty at the most, the costs will
tumble, and all but the very poorest of these drudges will be able to choose from a menu at least as
wondrous as the one within reach of these stubby little fingers.

The block ends with a red light and a collection of placid, sheep-like office workers. They speak to
headsets, or they don't speak at all. He pushes between their legs, reaching the curb before the light
changes. Conversations die away. Faces stare down at the top of his head. Then a phone sings the big
crescendo from Beethoven's Ninth, and with a loud clear voice, he says, "Shit."

The eyes around him grow huge.

He slips off the backpack and yanks out his Benny-the-Robot phone, looking at the incoming number
before flipping it open. "What?" he snaps.

"Where are you?" a voice asks. A woman's voice.

"Nowhere," he replies.

"I was wondering if you were free," the voice continues.

"Barely free. And it takes all of my considerable talent to remain this way."