"Kim Stanley Robinson - A History Of The Twentieth Century2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robinson Kim Stanley)

the face of a stiff wind, onto the Brough of Birsay. Viking ruins began immediately, as erosion had
dropped part of the old settlement into the sea. He climbed steps into a tight network of knee-high walls.
Compared to Skara Brae, it was a big town. In the middle of all the low foundations rose the
shoulder-high walls of a church. Twelfth century, ambitious Romanesque design: and yet only fifty feet
long, and twenty wide! Now this was a pocket cathedral. It had had a monastery connected to it,
however; and some of the men who worshipped in it had traveled to Rome, Moscow, Newfoundland.
Picts had lived here before that; a few of their ruins lay below the Norse. Apparently they had left before
the Norse arrived, though the record wasn't clear. What was clear was that people had been living here
for a long, long time.
After a leisurely exploration of the site Frank walked west, up the slope of the island. It was only a few
hundred yards to the lighthouse on the cliff, a modern white building with a short fat tower. Beyond it was
the edge of the island. He walked toward it and emerged from the wind shelter the island provided; a
torrent of gusts almost knocked him back. He reached the edge and looked down. At last something that
looked like he thought it would! It was a long way to the water, perhaps a hundred and fifty feet. The cliff
was breaking off in great stacks, which stood free and tilted out precariously, as if they were going to fall
at any moment. Great stone cliffs, with the sun glaring directly out from them, and the surf crashing to
smithereens on the rocks below: it was so obviously, grandiloquently the End of Europe that he had to
laugh. A place made to cast oneself from. End the pain and fear, do a Hart Crane off the stern of Europe
... except this looked like the bow, actually. The bow of a very big ship, crashing westward through the
waves; yes, he could feel it in the soles of his feet. And foundering, he could feel that too, the shudders,
the rolls, the last sluggish list. So jumping overboard would be redundant at best. The end would come,
one way or another. Leaning out against the gale, feeling like a Pict or Viking, he knew he stood at the
end - end of a continent, end of a century; end of a culture.
And yet there was a boat, coming around Marwick Head from the south, a little fishing tub from
Stromness, rolling horribly in the swell. Heading northwest, out to - out to where? There were no more
islands out there, not until Iceland anyway, or Greenland, Spitsbergen ... where was it going at this time
of day, near sunset and the west wind tearing in? He stared at the trawler for a long time, rapt at the sight,
until it was nothing but a black dot near the horizon. Whitecaps covered the sea, and the wind was still
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rising, gusting really hard. Gulls skated around on the blasts, landing on the cliffs below. The sun was very
near the water, sliding off to the north, the boat no more than flotsam: and then he remembered the
causeway and the tide.
He ran down the island and his heart leaped when he saw the concrete walkway washed by white water,
surging up from the right. Stuck here, forced to break into the museum or huddle in a corner of the
church ... but no; the concrete stood clear again. If he ran - He pounded down the steps and ran over the
rough concrete. There were scores of parallel sandstone ridges still exposed to the left, but the right side
was submerged already, and as he ran a broken wave rolled up onto the walkway and drenched him to
the knees, filling his shoes with seawater and scaring him much more than was reasonable. He ran on
cursing.
Onto the rocks and up five steps. At his car he stopped, gasping for breath. He got in the passenger side
and took off his boots, socks, and pants. Put on dry pants, socks, and running shoes. He got back out of
the car. The wind was now a constant gale, ripping over the car and the point and the ocean all around. It
was going to be tough to cook dinner on his stove; the car made a poor windbreak, wind rushing under it
right at stove level. He got out the foam pad, and propped it with his boots against the lee side of the car.
The pad and the car's bulk gave him just enough wind shelter to keep the little Bluet's gas flame alive. He
sat on the asphalt behind the stove, watching the flames and the sea. The wind was tremendous, the Bay