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

still far distant: a hundred years away, two hundred, three. So people
didn't worry too much. They had been used to this all their lives long, and
their parents before them. Perhaps one day the slow birds would stop
coming. And going. And exploding. Just as they had first started, once.
Certainly the situation was no different, by all accounts, anywhere else in
the world. Only the seas were clear of slow birds. So maybe the human
race would have to take to rafts one day. Though by then, with what would
they build them? Meanwhile, people got by; and most had long ago given
up asking why. For there was no answer.



The girl's sister helped her rise. No bones broken, it seemed. Only an
injury to dignity; and to her sail.
The other skaters had all coasted to a halt and were staring resentfully
at the bird in their midst. Its belly and sides were almost bare of graffiti;
seeing this, a number of youths hastened on to the glass, clutching
penknives, rusty nails and such. But an umpire waved them back angrily.
"Shoo! Be off with you!" His gaze seemed to alight on Jason, and for a
fatuous moment Jason imagined that it was himself to whom the umpire
was about to appeal; but the man called, "Master Tarnover!" instead, and
Max Tarnover duck-waddled past then glided out over the glass, to confer.
Presently, the umpire cupped his hands. "We're delaying the start for
half an hour," he bellowed. "Fair's fair: young lady ought to have a chance
to fix her sail, seeing as it wasn't her fault."
Jason noted a small crinkle of amusement on Tarnover's face; for now
either the other competitors would have to carry on prancing around
tiring themselves with extra practice which none of them needed, or else
troop off the glass for a recess and lose some psychological edge. In fact
almost everyone opted for a break and some refreshments.
"Luck indeed!" snorted Mrs. Babbidge, as Max Tarnover clumped back
their way.
Tarnover paused by Jason. "Frankly I'd say her sail's a wreck," he
confided. "But what can you do? The Buckby lot would have been bitching
on otherwise. 'Oh, she could have won. If she'd had ten minutes to fix it.'
Bloody hunk of metal in the way." Tarnover ran a lordly eye over Jason's
sail "What price skill, then?"
Daniel Babbidge regarded Tarnover with a mixture of hero worship and
hostile partisanship on his brother's behalf. Jason himself only nodded
and said, "Fair enough." He wasn't certain whether Tarnover was acting
generouslyтАФor with patronizing arrogance. Or did this word in his ear
mean that Tarnover actually saw Jason as a valid rival for the silver
punch-bowl this year round?
 Obviously young Daniel did not regard Jason's response as adequate.
He piped up: "So where do you think the birds go, Master Tarnover, when
they aren't here?"
A good question: quite unanswerable, but Max Tarnover would
probably feel obliged to offer an answer if only to maintain his pose of
worldly wisdom. Jason warmed to his brother, while Mrs. Babbidge,
catching on, cuffed the boy softly.