"Michael Swanwick - Scherzo with Tyrannosaur" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

I took the microphone out of my pocket, and moved quickly to the front
of the room. "Folks, we just got lucky. I'd like to inform those of you with
tables by the window that the glass is rated at twenty tons per square inch.
You're in no danger whatsoever. But you are in for quite a show. Those who
are in the rear might want to get a little closer."
Young Philippe was off like a shot.
The creature was almost to us. "A tyrannosaur has a hyperacute sense
of smell," I reminded them. "When it scents blood, its brain is overwhelmed.
It goes into a feeding frenzy."
A few droplets of blood had spattered the window. Seeing us through
the glass, Satan leaped and tried to smash through it.
Whoomp! The glass boomed and shivered with the impact. There were
shrieks and screams from the diners, and several people started to their feet.
At my signal, the string quartet took up their instruments again, and
began to play while Satan leaped and tore and snarled, a perfect avatar of
rage and fury. They chose the scherzo from Shostokovich's piano quintet.
Scherzos are supposed to be funny, but most have a whirlwind,
uninhibited quality that makes them particularly appropriate to nightmares and
the madness of predatory dinosaurs.
Whoomp! That mighty head struck the window again and again and again.
For a long time, Satan kept on frenziedly slashing at the window with his
jaws, leaving long scratches in the glass.
Philippe pressed his body against the window with all his strength,
trying to minimize the distance between himself and savage dino death.
Shrieking with joyous laughter when that killer mouth tried to snatch him up.
I felt for the kid, wanting to get as close to the action as he could. I
could identify.
I was just like that myself when I was his age.
****
When Satan finally wore himself out and went bad-humoredly away, I returned to
the de Chervilles. Philippe had restored himself to the company of his
family. The kid looked pale and happy.
So did his sister. I noticed that she was breathing shallowly. Satan
does that to young women.
"You dropped your napkin." I handed it to Melusine. Inside was a
postcard-sized promotional map, showing Hilltop Station and behind it Tent
City, where the researchers lived. One of the tents was circled. Under it
was written, While the others are dancing.
I had signed it Don.
****
"When I grow up I'm going to be a paleontologist," the kid said fervently. "A
behavioral paleontologist, not an anatomist or a wrangler." Somebody had come
to take him home. His folks were staying to dance. And Melusine was long
gone, off to Hawkins' tent.
"Good for you," I said. I laid a hand on his shoulder. "Come see me
when you've got the education. I'll be happy to show you the ropes."
The kid left.
He'd had a conversion experience. I knew exactly how it felt. I'd had
mine standing in front of the Zallinger "Age of Reptiles" mural in the Peabody
Museum in New Haven. That was before time travel, when paintings of dinosaurs