"Michael Swanwick - Mother Grasshopper" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

People said he'd gone south, off the lens entirely.

Back at my boarding house, I was approached by one of the lodgers. He was a
skinny man with a big mustache and sleeveless white T-shirt that hung from his
skinny shoulders like wet laundry on a muggy Sunday.

"What you got in that bag?"

"Black death," I said, "infectious meningitis, tuberculosis. You name it."

He thought for a bit. "I got this gal," he said at last. "I don't suppose you
could..."

"I'll take a look at her," I said, and hoisted the bag.

We went upstairs to his room.

She lay in the bed, eyes closed. There was an IV needle in her arm, hooked up to
a drip feed. She looked young, but of course that meant nothing. Her hair,
neatly brushed and combed, laid across the coverlet almost to her waist, was
white -- white as snow, as death, as finest bone china.

"How long has she been like this?" I asked.

"Ohhhh..." He blew out his cheeks. "Forty-seven, maybe fifty years?"

"You her father?"

"Husband. Was, anyhow. Not sure how long the vows were meant to hold up under
these conditions: can't say I've kept 'em any too well. You got something in
that bag for her?" He said it as casual as he could, but his eyes were big and
spooked-looking.

I made my decision. "Tell you what," I said. "I'll give you forty dollars for
her."

"The sheriff wouldn't think much of what you just said," the man said low and
quiet.

"No. But then, I suppose I'll be off of the eye-lands entirely before he knows a
word of it."

I picked up my syringe.

"Well? Is it a deal or not?"
Her name was Victoria. We were a good three days march into the chitin before
she came out of the trance state characteristic of the interim zombie stage of
Recovery. I'd fitted her with a pack, walking shoes, and a good stout stick, and
she strode along head up, eyes blank, speaking in the tongues of angels afloat