"Vernor Vinge - Across Realtime 3 - Marooned in Realtime" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vinge Vernor)

Marooned in Realtime
Vernor Vinge


ONE
On the day of the big rescue, Wil Brierson took a walk on the beach. Surely this was one afternoon
when it would be totally empty.

The sky was clear, but the usual sea mist kept visibility to a few kilometers. The beach, the low dunes,
the sea-all were closed in by faint haze that seemed centered on his viewpoint. Wil moped along just
beyond the waves, where the water soaked the sand flat and cool. His ninety-kilo tread left perfect
barefoot images trailing behind. Wil ignored the sea birds that skirled about. He walked head down,
watching the water ooze up around his toes at every step. A humid breeze carried the smell of seaweed,
sharp and pleasant. Every half minute the waves peaked and clear sea water flooded around his ankles.
Except during storms, this was all the "surf" one ever saw oil the Inland Sea. Walking like this, he could
almost imagine that he was back by Lake Michigan, so long ago. Every summer, he and Virginia had
camped on the lakeshore. Almost, he could imagine that he was returning from a noontime stroll on sonic
very muggy Michigan day, and that if he walked far enough he would find Virginia and Anne and Billy
waiting impatiently around the campfire, teasing him for going off alone.

Almost...

Wil looked up. Thirty meters further on was the cause of all the seabird clamor. A tribe of fishermonkeys
was playing at water's edge. The monkeys must have noticed him by now. In past weeks, they would
have disappeared into the sea at the first sight of human or machine. Now they stayed ashore. As he
approached, the younger ones waddled toward him. Wil went to one knee and they crowded round,
their webbed fingers searching curiously at his pockets. One removed a data card. Wil grinned, tugged
the card from the monkey's grasp. "Aha! A pickpocket. You're under arrest!"

"Forever the policeman, eh, Inspector?" The voice was feminine, the tone light. It came from somewhere
over his head. Wil leaned back. A remote-controlled flier hung just a few meters above him.

He grinned. "Just keeping in practice. Is that you, Marta? I thought you were preparing for this evening's
'festivities'."

"I am. And part of the preparation is to get foolish people off the beach. The fireworks won't wait till
night."

"What?"

"That Steve Fraley тАФ he's making a big scene, trying to argue Yel├йn into postponing the rescue. She's
decided to do it a little early, just to let Steve know who's boss." Marta laughed. Wil couldn't tell if her
amusement was directed at Yel├йn Korolev's irritation or at Fraley. "So please to move your tail, sir. I
have some other people to harass yet. I expect you back in town before this flier."

"Yes, ma'am!" Wil gave a mock salute and turned to jog back the way he had come: He had gone about
thirty meters when a banshee shriek erupted behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the flier
diving in the other direction, lights flashing, sirens blaring. Against that assault, the newfound sophistication
of the fishermonkeys dissolved. They panicked, and with the screaming flier between them and the sea
their only choice was to grab the kids and scramble up into the dunes. Marta's flier followed, dropping