"Ian Watson - Saving for a Sunny Day" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watson Ian)

"A predecessor who's able to predict is impossible,тАЭ said Mike. тАЬI can't predict anything except that your
Mom and me both need to save!тАЭ Did one detect a note of panic?
"I know you can't help me pay my debt,тАЭ Jimmy said maturely. тАЬIt's everyone for himself. Democracy, no
dynasties.тАЭ The boy drew himself up as much as he could. тАЬTo everyone their own chance in life. It
would be dumb to leave money to kids who are merely your biological offspring. My predecessor might
have been a Bushman in the Kalahari."

The impulse to have children who are deeply part of you had taken a bit of a knock with reincarnation,
but on the other hand breeding instincts die hard, especially if offspring look reasonably similar to their
bio-parents. Mostly you could ignore the fact that the soul within was a stranger. Not least since a soul
didn't store conscious memories except once in a blue moon. Well, once in every hundred million births
approx, the exceptionтАФso to speakтАФthat proved the rule of reincarnation. There were glad media
tidings whenever that happened and a young kid remembered, like some Dalai Lama identifying toys
from a past life. Of course after the initial flurry such kids and their parents were protected, not made a
spectacle of. Right of privacy.

Denise raised her eyebrows. тАЬI don't know if many Bushmen can go through nine million. What do they
spend it on? Bushes?тАЭ She laughed. Her eyebrows were tinted apricot, and her hair peach colour. You
had to have some of life's little luxuries, not fret about saving all the time. If everyone saved and nobody
spent much, what would happen about beauticians and ballet dancers and champagne producers? Just
for example. Denise worked from home in cosmetics telesales. She put her mouth where her money was,
so to speak. Retro was always chic.

Mike owned a modest but upmarket business called Bumz, specialising in chairs.

He'd been reborn with about 80,000 dollars, revealed when he was six-years old. Denise only had one
thousand to start off with, though admittedly that was better than minus a thousand.

Their house, of timber imported as a flat-pack from Canada, enjoyed a front view of a free-range
chicken farm that was more like a bird zoo, for this was a salubrious suburb. There were side and rear
views of other pleasant houses amidst trees and bushes. Denise had often sat her son on her knee so they
could bird-spot through binoculars the various breeds of poultry such as Silver-laced Wyandotes with
bodies like mosaic, White Cochins with very feathery feet, Black Leghorns with big red combs, and
greenish Australorps.

Of course, if Jimmy's parents were both car-crashed prematurelyтАФfor example, but perish the
thoughtтАФhouse and land would revert to the L-T Bank, and Jimmy would need to go to an L-T
orphanage till he was sixteen.

Although disappointed by the bank's statement, Jimmy took the news in his hobbling stride.

"I'm going to start counting chickens,тАЭ he said, тАЬto train my mind to pick up patterns, and estimate."

"Chickens keep on moving all the time,тАЭ observed his mother.

"Exactly! No, I mean inexactly. I'll need to go into financial prediction, fund management. That's where
the big bonuses are."

"I'd rather hoped you'd join Bumz,тАЭ said his father, perhaps feeling a little slighted.