"Charles Stross - Rogue Farm" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

knee as he closed in on it, a syrette raised: "why?" it asked plaintively in a voice that
almost made him wish he hadn't pulled the trigger. "We could have gone together!"

"Together?" he asked. Already the eye stalks were drooping; the great lungs wheezed
effortfully as it struggled to frame a reply.

"I was going to ask you," said the farm, and half its legs collapsed under it, with a thud
like a baby earthquake. "Oh Joe, if only ..."

"Joe? Maddie?" he demanded, nerveless fingers dropping the tranquiliser gun.

A mouth appeared in the farm's front, slurred words at him from familiar seeming lips,
words about Jupiter and promises. Appalled, Joe backed away from the farm. Passing
the first dead tree he dropped the nitrogen tank: then an impulse he couldn't articulate
made him turn and run, back to the house, eyes almost blinded by sweat or tears. But he
was too slow, and when he dropped to his knees next to the farm, pharmacopoeia
clicking and whirring to itself in his arms, he found it was already dead.

"Bugger," said Joe, and he stood up, shaking his head. "Bugger." He keyed his
walkie-talkie: "Bob, come in, Bob!"

"Rrrrowl?"

"Momma's had another break-down. Is the tank clean, like I asked?"

"Yap!"

"Okay. I got 'er backup tapes in t'office safe. Let's get't'ank warmed up for 'er an' then
shift t'tractor down 'ere to muck out this mess."

###

That autumn, the weeds grew unnaturally rich and green down in the north paddock of
Armitage End.

(THE END)