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

saw how Tarnover continued to trip his sail strenuously even though he
was actually moving a little slower than before. Without realizing it,
Tarnover had his angle wrong; he was using unnecessary wrist action.
Tarnover was in the lead now. Immediately all psychological pressure
lifted from Jason. With ease and grace he stayed a few yards behind, just
where he could benefit from the 'eye' of air in Tarnover's wake. And thus
he remained till half way down the final straight, feeling like a kestrel
hanging in the sky with a mere twitch of its wings before swooping.
He held back; held back. Then suddenly changing the cant of his sail he
did swoopтАФinto the lead again.
It was a mistake. It had been a mistake all along. For as Jason sailed
past, Tarnover actually laughed. Jerking his brown and orange silk to an
easier, more efficient pitch, Tarnover began to pump his legs, skating like
a demon. Already he was ahead again. By five yards. By ten. And entering
the final curve.
As Jason tried to catch up in the brief time remaining, he knew how he
had been fooled; though the knowledge came too late. So cleverly had
Tarnover fixed Jason's mind on the stance of the sails, by holding his own
in such a wayтАФa way, too, which deliberately created that convenient eye
of airтАФthat Jason had quite neglected the contribution of his legs and
skates, taking this for granted, failing to monitor it from moment to
moment. It only took moments to recover and begin pumping his own legs
too, but those few moments were fatal. Jason crossed the finish line one
yard behind last year's victor; who was this year's victor too.
As he slid to a halt, bitter with chagrin, Jason was well aware that it
was up to him to be gracious in defeat rather than let Tarnover seize that
advantage, too.
He called out, loud enough for everyone to hear: "Magnificent, Max!
Splendid skating! You really caught me on the hop there."
Tarnover smiled for the benefit of all onlookers.
"What a noisy family you Babbidges are," he said softly; and skated off
to be presented with the silver punch-bowl again.



Much later that afternoon, replete with roast pork and awash with Old
Codger Ale, Jason was waving an empty beer mug about as he talked to
Bob Marchant in the midst of a noisy crowd. Bob, who had fallen so
spectacularly the year before. Maybe that was why he had skated
diffidently today and been one of the laggards.
The sky was heavily overcast, and daylight too was failing. Soon the
homeward trek would have to start.
One of Jason's drinking and skating partners from Atherton, Sam
Partridge, thrust his way through.
"Jay! That brother of yours: he's out on the glass. He's scrambled up on
the back of the bird. He's riding it."
 "What?"
Jason sobered rapidly, and followed Partridge with Bob Marchant
tagging along behind.
Sure enough, a couple of hundred yards away in the gloaming Daniel