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

ItтАЩs early spring, a weekday morning, and the toilet attendant seems to be taking the emergency as a
personal comment on the cleanliness of his porcelain. He jumps up and down agitatedly as he shoves Gregor
down the spiral staircase into the shelter, like a short troll in a blue uniform stocking his larder. тАЬThree
minutes!тАЭ shouts the troll. тАЬHold fast in three minutes!тАЭ So many people in London are wearing uniforms these
days, Gregor reflects; itтАЩs almost as if they believe that if they play their wartime role properly the ineffable will
constrain itself to their expectations of a humanly comprehensible enemy.
A double-bang splits the air above the park and echoes down the stairwell. ItтАЩll be RAF or USAF interceptors
outbound from the big fighter base near Hanworth. Gregor glances round: A couple of oafish gardeners sit on
the wooden benches inside the concrete tunnel of the shelter, and a louche City type in a suit leans against
the wall, irritably fiddling with an unlit cigarette and glaring at the NO SMOKING signs. тАЬBloody nuisance,
eh?тАЭ he snarls in GregorтАЩs direction.
Gregor composes his face in a thin smile. тАЬI couldnтАЩt possibly comment,тАЭ he says, his Hungarian accent
betraying his status as a refugee. (Another sonic boom rattles the urinals, signaling the passage of yet more
fighters.) The louche businessman will be his contact, Goldsmith. He glances at the shelterтАЩs counter. Its dial
is twirling slowly, signaling the marked absence of radon and fallout. Time to make small-talk, verbal primate
grooming: тАЬDoes it happen often?тАЭ
The corporate tough relaxes. He chuckles to himself. HeтАЩll have pegged Gregor as a visitor from stranger
shores, the new NATO dominions overseas where they settled the latest wave of refugees ejected by the
communists. Taking in the copy of The Telegraph and the pattern of stripes on GregorтАЩs tie heтАЩll have realized
what else Gregor is to him. тАЬYou should know, you took your time getting down here. Do you come here often
to visit the front line, eh?тАЭ
тАЬI am here in this bunker with you,тАЭ Gregor shrugs. тАЬThere is no front line on a circular surface.тАЭ He sits down
on the bench opposite the businessman gingerly. тАЬCigarette?тАЭ
тАЬDonтАЩt mind if I do.тАЭ The businessman borrows GregorтАЩs cigarette case with a flourish: the symbolic
peace-offering accepted, they sit in silence for a couple of minutes, waiting to find out if itтАЩs the curtain call for
world war four, or just a trailer.
A different note drifts down the staircase, the warbling tone that indicates the all-clear these days. The Soviet
bombers have turned for home, the ragged lionтАЩs stumpy tail tickled yet again. The toilet troll dashes down
the staircase and windmills his arms at them: тАЬNo smoking in the nuclear bunker!тАЭ he screams. тАЬGet out! Out,
I say!тАЭ
Gregor walks back into RegentтАЩs Park, to finish disposing of his stale bread-crumbs and ferry the contents of
his cigarette case back to the office. The businessman doesnтАЩt know it yet, but heтАЩs going to be arrested, and
his English nationalist/neutralist cabal interned: meanwhile, Gregor is being recalled to Washington DC. This
is his last visit, at least on this particular assignment. There are thin times ahead for the wood pigeons.




Chapter Two: Voyage
ItтАЩs a moonless night and the huge reddened whirlpool of the Milky Way lies below the horizon. With only the
reddish-white pinprick glare of Lucifer for illumination, itтАЩs too dark to read a newspaper.
Maddy is old enough to remember a time when night was something else: when darkness stalked the
heavens, the Milky Way a faded tatter spun across half the sky. A time when ominous Soviet spheres
bleeped and hummed their way across a horizon that curved, when geometry was dominated by pi,
astronomy made sense, and serious men with horn-rimmed glasses and German accents were going to the
moon. October 2, 1962: thatтАЩs when it all changed. ThatтАЩs when life stopped making sense. (Of course it first
stopped making sense a few days earlier, with the U-2 flights over the concrete emplacements in Cuba, but
there was a difference between the lunacy of brinksmanshipтАУKhrushchevтАЩs shoe banging on the table at the
UN as he shouted тАЬwe will bury you!тАЭтАУand the flat earth daydream that followed, shattering history and
plunging them all into this nightmare of revisionist geography.)