"Charles Stross - Missile Gap" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

тАЬAre we being ordered to move? Or to prepare a sterilization strike?тАЭ
тАЬNot yet.тАЭ Brundle shrugs. тАЬWe have further research to continue with before a decision is reached. The
Soviets have made a discovery. Their crewed exploration program. The Korolev lucked out.тАЭ
тАЬTheyтАУтАЭ Gregor tenses. тАЬWhat did they find?тАЭ He knows about the big nuclear-powered Ekranoplan, the
dragon of the Caspian, searching the seven oceans for new worlds to conquer. He even knows about the
small fleet theyтАЩre trying to build at Archangelsk, the ruinous expense of it. But this is new. тАЬWhat did they
find?тАЭ
Brundle grins humorlessly. тАЬThey found ruins. Then they spent another eight weeks mapping the coastline.
TheyтАЩve confirmed what they found, they sent the State Department photographs, survey detailsтАУthe lot.тАЭ
Brundle gestures at the Cuban War monument, the huge granite column dominating the Mall, its shadow
pointing towards the Capitol. тАЬThey found Washington DC, in ruins. One hundred and forty thousand miles
that way.тАЭ He points due north. тАЬTheyтАЩre not total idiots, and itтАЩs the first time theyтАЩve found one of their own
species-transfer cognates. They might be well on their way to understanding the truth, but luckily our
comrades in Moscow have that side of the affair under control. But they communicated their discovery to the
CIA before it could be suppressed, which raises certain headaches.
тАЬWe must make sure that nobody here asks why. So I want you to start by dealing with Sagan.тАЭ




Chapter Eleven: Collecting Jar
ItтАЩs noon, and the rippling heat haze turns the horizon to fog in the distance. Maddy tries not to move too
much: the cycads cast imperfect shadows, and she can feel the Venetian blinds of light burning into her pale
skin. She sighs slightly as she hefts the heavy canvas sample bag out of the back of the Land Rover: John
will be needing it soon, once heтАЩs finished photographing the mock-termite nests. ItтАЩs their third field trip
together, their furthest dash into the outback, and sheтАЩs already getting used to working with John. HeтАЩs
surprisingly easy to get on with, because heтАЩs so absorbed in his work that heтАЩs refreshingly free of social
expectations. If she didnтАЩt know better she could almost let her guard down and start thinking of him as a
friend, not an employer.
The heat makes her mind drift: she tries to remember what sparked her most recent quarrel with Bob, but it
seems so distant and irrelevant nowтАУlike home, like Bob arguing with her father, like their hurried
registry-office wedding and furtive emigration board hearing. All that makes sense now is the stifling heat, the
glare of not-sunlight, John working with his camera out in the noonday sun where only mad dogs and
Englishmen dare go. Ah, it was the washing. Who was going to do the washing while Maddy was away on
the two-day field trip? Bob seemed to think he was doing her a favor, cooking for himself and taking his
clothes to the single over-used public laundry. (Some year real soon now theyтАЩd get washing machines, but
not yetтАж) Bob seemed to think he was being big-hearted, not publicly getting jealous all over her having a job
that took her away from home with a male superior who was notoriously single. Bob seemed to think he was
some kind of progressive liberated man, for putting up with a wife who had read Betty Freidan and didnтАЩt
shave her armpits. Fuck you, Bob, she thinks tiredly, and tugs the heavy strap of the sample case over her
shoulder and turns to head in JohnтАЩs direction. ThereтАЩll be time to sort things out with Bob later. For now,
sheтАЩs got a job to do.
John is leaning over the battered camera, peering through its viewfinder in search ofтАжsomething. тАЬWhatтАЩs
up?тАЭ she asks.
тАЬMock termites are up,тАЭ he says, very seriously. тАЬSee the entrances?тАЭ The mock termites are what theyтАЩve
come to take a look atтАУnobodyтАЩs reported on them from close up, but theyтАЩre very visible as soon as you
venture into the dusty plain. She peers at the foot of the termite mound, a baked clay hump in the soil that
seems to writhe with life. There are little pipe-like holes, tunnels almost, emerging from the base of the
mound, and little black mock-termites dancing in and out of the holes in never-ending streams. Little is
relativeтАУtheyтАЩre almost as large as mice. тАЬDonтАЩt touch them,тАЭ he warns.