"Michael Swanwick - A Midwinters Tale" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

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Sit on my lap and IтАЩll tell you all. Well then, my knee. No woman was
online. There,
ever ruined by a knee. You laugh, but itтАЩs true. Would that it were so
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easy!
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The hell of war as itтАЩs now practiced is that its purpose is not so your name,
much to gain territory as to deplete the enemy, and thus itтАЩs always address and
better to maim than to kill. A corpse can be bagged, burned, and credit card
forgotten, but the wounded need special care. Regrowth tanks, false information.
skin, medical personnel, a long convalescent stay on your parentsтАЩ
farm. ThatтАЩs why they will vary their weapons, hit you with obsolete
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stone axes or toxins or radiation, to force your Command to stock
the proper prophylaxes, specialized medicines, obscure skills.
Copyright
Mustard gas is excellent for that purpose, and so was the brain
fever.
"A Midwinter's
All those months I lay in the hospital, awash in pain, sometimes Tale" by Michael
hallucinating. Dreaming of ice. When I awoke, weak and not really Swanwick,
believing I was alive, parts of my life were gone, randomly burned copyright ┬й 1988
from my memory. I recall standing at the very top of the iron bridge by Michael
over the Izveltaya, laughing and throwing my books one by one into Swanwick, used


file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Michael%20Swanwick%20-%20A%20Midwinters%20Tale.htm (1 of 15) [12/30/2004 8:07:22 PM]
Asimov's Science Fiction - A Midwinter's Tale by Michael Swanwick

the river, while my best friend Fennwolf tried to coax me down. "IтАЩll by permission of
join the militia! IтАЩll be a soldier!" I shouted hysterically. And so I did. I the author
remember that clearly but just what led up to that preposterous
instant is utterly beyond me. Nor can I remember the name of my
second-eldest sister, though her face is as plain to me as yours is
now. There are odd holes in my memory.

That Christmas Eve is an island of stability in my seachanging
memories, as solid in my mind as the Stone House itself, that
Neolithic cavern in which we led such basic lives that I was never
quite sure in which era of history we dwelt. Sometimes the men
came in from the hunt, a larl or two pacing ahead content and sleepy-
eyed, to lean bloody spears against the walls, and it might be that
we lived on Old Earth itself then. Other times, as when they brought
in projectors to fill the common room with colored lights, scintillae
nesting in the branches of the seasonтАЩs tree, and cool, harmless
flames dancing atop the presents, we seemed to belong to a much
later age, in some mythologized province of the future.