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

noise bombs on either side of them. Flier and monkeys disappeared over the top of the sand into the
jungle, and the noise faded. Wil wondered briefly how far Marta would have to chase them to get them
into a safe area. He knew she was equal parts soft-heartedness and practicality. She'd never scare the
animals away from the beach unless there was some chance they could make it to safe haven. Wil smiled
to himself. He wouldn't be surprised if Marta had chosen the season and the day of the blow-off to
minimize deaths to wildlife.

Three minutes later, Brierson was near the top of the rickety stairs that led to the monorail. He looked
down and saw that he hadn't been the only person on the beach. Someone was strolling toward the base
of the stairway. Over half a million centuries, the Korolevs had rescued or recruited quite a collection of
weirds, but at least they all looked fairly normal. This person... was different. The stranger carried a
variable parasol, and was naked except for a loincloth and shoulder purse. His skin was pale, pasty. As
he started up the stairs, the parasol tilted back to reveal a hairless, egglike head. And Wil saw that the
stranger might just as well be a she (or an it). The creature was short and slender, its movements delicate.
There were faint swellings around its nipples.

Brierson waved hesitantly; it was good policy to meet all the new neighbors, especially the advanced
travelers. But then it looked up at Brierson, and even across twenty meters those dark eyes penetrated
with cold indifference. The small mouth twitched, but no words came. Wil swallowed and turned to
continue up the plastic stairs. There might be some neighbors it was better to learn of secondhand.



Korolev. That was the official name of the town (as officially Named by Yel├йn Korolev). There were
almost as many rival names as there were inhabitants. Wil's Indian friends wanted to call it Newest Delhi.
The government (in irrevocable exile) of New Mexico wanted to call it New Albuquerque. Optimists
liked Second Chance, pessimists Last Chance. For megalomaniacs it was the Great Urb.

Whatever its name, the town nestled in the foothills of the Indonesian Alps, high enough so that equatorial
heat and humidity was moderated to an almost uniform pleasantness. Here the Korolevs and their friends
had finally assembled the rest cued from all the ages. Almost everyone's architectural taste had been
catered to. The New Mexican statists had a main street lined with large (mostly empty) buildings that Wil
thought epitomized their bureaucracy. Most others from the twenty-first century-Wil included-lived in
small groups of homes very like those they'd known before. The advanced travelers lived higher in the
mountains.

Town Korolev was built on a scale to accommodate thousands. At the moment the population was less
than two hundred, every living human being. They needed more; Yel├йn Korolev knew where to get one
hundred more. She was determined to rescue them.

Steven Fraley, President of the Republic of New Mexico, was determined that those hundred remain
unrescued. He was still arguing the case when Brierson arrived. "... and you don't appreciate the history
of our era, madam. The Peacers came near to exterminating the human race. Sure, saving this group will
get you a few more warm bodies, but you risk the survival of our whole colony, of the entire human race,
in doing so."

Yel├йn Korolev looked calm, but Wil knew her well enough to recognize the signs of an impending
explosion: there were rosy patches on her cheeks, yet her features were otherwise even paler than usual.
She ran a hand through her blond hair. "Mr. Fraley, I really do know the history of your era. Remember
that almost all of us-no matter what our present age and experience-have our childhoods within a couple