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

"Zima will be here in a moment," it said, before returning to the conveyor and vanishing back into the sky.

Suddenly I felt very alone and very vulnerable. A breeze came in from the sea, blowing sand into my
eyes. The sun was creeping down toward the horizon and soon it would be getting chilly. Just when I was
beginning to feel the itch of panic, a man emerged from the chalet, rubbing his hands briskly. He walked
toward me, following a path of paved stones.

"Glad you could make it, Carrie."

It was Zima, of course, and in a flash I felt foolish for doubting that he would show his face.
"Hi," I said lamely.

Zima offered his hand. I shook it, feeling the slightly plastic texture of his artificial skin. Today it was a dull
pewter-grey.

"Let's go and sit on the balcony. It's nice to watch the sunset, isn't it?"

"Nice," I agreed.

He turned his back to me and set off in the direction of the chalet. As he walked, his muscles flexed and
bulged beneath the pewter flesh. There were scale-like glints in the skin on his back, as if it had been set
with a mosaic of reflective chips. He was beautiful like a statue, muscular like a panther. He was a
handsome man, even after all his transformations, but I had never heard of him taking a lover, or having
any kind of a private life at all. His art was everything.

I followed him, feeling awkward and tongue-tied. Zima led me into the chalet, through an old-fashioned
kitchen and an old-fashioned lounge, full of thousand-year-old furniture and ornaments.

"How was the flight?"

"Fine."

He stopped suddenly and turned to face me. "I forgot to checkтАж did the robot insist that you leave
behind your Aide Memoire?"

"Yes."

"Good. It was you I wanted to talk to, Carrie, not some surrogate recording device."

"Me?"

The pewter mask of his face formed a quizzical expression. "Do you do multisyllables, or are you still
working up to that?"

"ErтАж"

"Relax," he said. "I'm not here to test you, or humiliate you, or anything like that. This isn't a trap, and
you're not in any danger. You'll be back in Venice by midnight."

"I'm okay," I managed. "Just a bit starstruck."