"Michael Swanwick - Trojan Horse" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

At first there was a slight pause, then: The kind of love you mean is characteristic of lower-order
programming. Not of program-free intelligence.



A moment later Tory canceled all programming, and she floated to the surface, leaving God behind. But
even before then she was acutely aware that she had not received a straight answer.



"Elin, we've got to talk."



She was patched into the outside monitors, staring across Mare Imbrium. It was a straight visual
program; she could feel the wetwire leads dangling down her neck, the warm, humid air of Magritte
against her skin. "Nothing to talk about," she said.
 Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html




"Dammit, yes there is! I'm not about to lose you again because of a misunderstanding, a-a matter of
semantics."



The thing about Outside was its airless clarity. Rocks and shadows were so preternaturally sharp. From
a sensor or the crater's seaward slope, she stared off into Mare Imbrium; it was monotonous but in a
comforting sort of way. A little like when she had made a Buddha. There was no meaning out there,
nothing to impose itself between her and the surface.



"I don't know how you found out about Coral," Tory said, "and I guess it doesn't matter. I always
figured you'd find out sooner or later. That's not important. What matters is that I love you-"



"Oh, hush up!"



"-and that you love me. You can't pretend you don't."



Elin felt her nails dig into her palms. "Sure I can," she said. She hopscotched down the crater to the
surface. There the mass driver stood, a thin monorail stretching kilometers into the Imbrium, its gentle
slope all but imperceptible.