"Alastair Reynolds - Zima Blue" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reynolds Alastair)

that 'Zima had made his own. The card was addressed to me, Carrie Clay, and it said that Zima wanted
to talk to me about the unveiling. If I was interested, I should report to the Rialto Bridge in exactly two
hours.

If I was interested.

The note stipulated that no recording materials were to be brought, not even a pen and paper. As an
afterthought, the card mentioned that the bill had been taken care of. I almost had the nerve to order
another coffee and put it on the same tab. Almost, but not quite.

Zima's servant was there when I arrived early at the bridge. Intricate neon mechanisms pulsed behind the
flexing glass of the robot's mannequin body. It bowed at the waist and spoke very softly. "Miss Clay?
Since you're here, we might as well depart."

The robot escorted me to a flight of stairs that led to the waterside. My AM followed us, fluttering at my
shoulder. A conveyor hovered in waiting, floating a metre above the water. The robot helped me into the
rear compartment. The AM was about to follow me inside when the robot raised a warning hand.

"You'll have to leave that behind, I'm afraid: no recording materials, remember?"

I looked at the metallic green hummingbird, trying to remember the last time I had been out of its
ever-watchful presence.

"Leave it behind?"

"It'll be quite safe here, and you can collect it again when you return after nightfall."

"If I say no?"

"Then I'm afraid there'll be no meeting with Zima."

I sensed that the robot wasn't going to hang around all afternoon waiting for my answer. The thought of
being away from the AM made my blood run cold. But I wanted that interview so badly I was prepared
to consider anything.

I told the AM to stay here until I returned.

The obedient machine reversed away from me in a flash of metallic green. It was like watching a part of
myself drift away. The glass hull wrapped itself around me and I felt a surge of un-nulled acceleration.

Venice tilted below us, then streaked away to the horizon.

I formed a test query, asking the AM to name the planet where I'd celebrated my seven hundredth
birthday. Nothing came: I was out of query range, with only my own age-saturated memory to rely on.

I leaned forward. "Are you authorised to tell me what this is about?"

"I'm afraid he didn't tell me," the robot said, making a face appear in the back of his head. "But if at any
moment you feel uncomfortable, we can return to Venice."