"Michael Swanwick - The Feast of Saint Janis" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

THE FEAST OF SAINT
JANIS
by Michael Swanwick
Take a load off, Janis, And
You put the load right on me... тАФтАШThe WaitтАЬ (trad.)


Wolf stood in the early morning fog watching the Yankee Clipper leave
Baltimore harbor. His elbows rested against a cool, clammy wall, its
surface eroded smooth by the passage of countless hands, almost certainly
dating back to before the Collapse. A metallic gray sparkle atop the
foremast drew his eye to the dish antenna that linked the ship with the
geosynchronous Trickster seasats it relied on to plot winds and currents.
To many the wooden Clipper, with its computer-designed hydrofoils
and hand-sewn sails, was a symbol of the New Africa. Wolf, however,
watching it merge into sea and sky, knew only that it was going home
without him.
He turned and walked back into the rick-a-rack of commercial
buildings crowded against the waterfront The clatter of hand-drawn carts
mingled with a melange of exotic cries and shouts, the alien music of a
dozen American dialects. Workers, clad in coveralls most of them,
swarmed about, grunting and cursing in exasperation when an iron wheel
lurched in a muddy pothole. Yet there was something furtive and covert
about them, as if they were hiding an ancient secret.
Craning to stare into the dark recesses of a warehouse, Wolf collided
with a woman clad head to foot in chador. She flinched at his touch, her
eyes glaring above the black veil, then whipped away. Not a word was
exchanged.
A citizen of Baltimore in its glory days would not have recognized the
city. Where the old buildings had not been torn down and buried, shanties
crowded the streets, taking advantage of the space automobiles had
needed. Sometimes they were built over the streets, so that alleys became
tunnelways, and sometimes these collapsed, to the cries and consternation
of the natives.
It was another day with nothing to do. He could don a filter mask and
tour the Washington ruins, but he had already done that, and besides the
day looked like it was going to be hot. It was unlikely heтАЩd hear anything
about his mission, not after mouths of waiting on American officials who
didnтАЩt want to talk with him. Wolf decided to check back at his hostel for
messages, then spend the day in the bazaars.
Children were playing in the street outside the hostel. They scattered at
his approach. One, he noted, lagged behind the others, hampered by a
malformed leg. He mounted the unpainted wooden steps, edging past an
old man who sat at the bottom. The old man was laying down tarot cards
with a slow and fatalistic disregard for what they said; he did not look up.
The bell over the door jangled notice of WolfтАЩs entry. He stepped into
the dark foyer.
Two men in the black uniforms of the political police appeared, one to
either side of him. тАЬWolfgang Hans Mbikana?тАЭ one asked. His voice had
the dust of ritual on it; he knew the answer, тАЬYou will come with us,тАЭ the