"Ian Watson - Slow Birds" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watson Ian)

walked home."
"Prototype? Air-waves? Power source? What are these?"
"I can tell you."
"Those are just words. Fanciful babble. Oh, for this babble of the world
to still itself!"
"Just give me time, and I'llтАФ"
"Time? You desire time? The mad ticking of men's minds instead of the
great pure void of eternal silence? You reject acceptance? You want us to
swarm forever aimlessly, deafening ourselves with our noisy chatter?"
"Look ... I suppose you've had a long, tough life, Jay. Maybe I shouldn't
have come here first."
"Oh, but you should indeed, my impetuous fool of a brother. And I do
not believe my life has been ill-spent."
Daniel tapped his forehead. "It's all in here. But I'd better get it down on
paper. Make copies and spread it aroundтАФjust in case Atherton gets
glassed. Then somebody else will know how to build the transmitter. And
life can go on. Over there they think maybe the human race is the only life
in the whole universe. So we have a duty to go on existing. Only, the others
have destroyed themselves arguing about which way to exist. But we've
still got time enough. We can build ships to sail through space to the stars.
I know a bit about that too. I tell you, my visit brought them real joy in
their last hours, to know this was all still possible after all."
"Oh, Dan." And Jason groaned. Patriarch-like, he raised his staff and
brought it crashing down on Daniel's skull.
He had imagined that he mightn't really notice the blood amidst
Daniel's bright red hair. But he did.
The boy's body slumped in the doorway. With an effort Jason dragged it
inside, then with an even greater effort up the oak stairs to the attic where
Martha Prestidge hardly ever went. The corpse might begin to smell after
a while, but it could be wrapped up in old blankets and such.
However, the return of his housekeeper down below distracted Jason.
Leaving the body on the floor he hastened out, turning the key in the lock
and pocketing it.
It had become the custom to invite selected guests back to the Babbidge
house following the Mayday festivities, so Martha Prestidge would be busy
all the rest of the day cleaning and cooking and setting the house to rights.
As was the way of the housekeepers, she hinted that Jason would get
under her feet, so off he walked down to the glass and out onto its perfect
flatness to stand and meditate. Villagers and visitors spying the lone figure
out there nodded gladly. Their prophet was at peace, presiding over their
lives. And over their deaths.
The skate-sailing masque, the passion play, was enacted as brightly and
gracefully as ever the next day.



It was May the third before Jason could bring himself to go up to the
attic again, carrying sacking and cord. He unlocked the door.
But apart from a dark stain of dried blood the floorboards were bare.
There was only the usual jumble stacked around the walls. The room was