"Scott Westerfield - The Movements Of Her Eyes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Westerfeld Scott)

wanted to know succinctly, she reeled offquestions from every direction,
attacking an issue like a host of smallpredators taking down a larger animal.
Her AI companion could only fend her offwith answers until (often
unexpectedly) Rathere was satisfied."When there is a good story here, your
father will decide to go.""Like what story?""He doesn't know yet."She nodded
her head. From her galvanic skin response, her pupils, the gradualslowing of
her heart, the AI saw that it had satisfied her. But still anotherquestion
came."Why didn't you just say so?"In the Expansion, information traveled no
faster than transportation, and scoopslike Isaah enriched themselves by being
first with news. The standardtransmission network employed small, fast drone
craft that moved among the starson a fixed schedule. The drones promulgated
news throughout the Expansion with apredictable and neutral efficiency,
gathering information to centralized nodes,dispersing it by timetable. Scoops
like Isaah, on the other hand, wereinefficient, unpredictable, and, most
importantly, unfair. They cut across theconcentric web of the drone network,
skipping junctions, skimming profits. Isaahwould recognize that the discovery
of a mineable asteroid here might affect theheavy element market there, and
jump straight between the two points, beatingthe faster but fastidious drones
by a few precious hours. A successful scoopknew the markets on many planets,
had acquaintance with aggressive investors andunprincipled speculators.
Sometimes, the scooped news of a celebrity's death,surprise marriage, or
arrest could be sold for its entertainment value. And somescoops were
information pirates. Isaah had himself published numerous novels bySethmare
Viin, his favorite author, machine-translated en route by the starshipAl. In
some systems, Isaah's version had been available weeks before theauthorized
edition.The peripatetic life of a scoop had taken Isaah and Rathere throughout
theExpansion, but he always returned to Petraveil. His refined instincts for a
goodscoop told him something was happening here. The fantastically slow
natives mustbe doing something. He would spend a few weeks, sometimes a few
months watchingthe stone creatures, wondering what they were up to. Isaah
didn't know what itmight be, but he felt that one day they would somehow come
to life.And that would be a scoop."How long do the lithomorphs live?""No one
knows.""What do they eat?""They don't really eat at all. They --""What's that
one doing?"The minder accessed the planetary library, plumbing decades of
research on thecreatures. But not quickly enough to answer before"What do they
think about us?" Rathere asked. "Can they see us?"To that, it had no
answer.Perhaps the lithos had noticed the whirring creatures around them, or
morelikely had spotted the semi-permanent buildings around the square. But
thelithomorphs' reaction to the sudden human invasion produced only a vague,
cosmicworry, like knowing one's star will collapse in a few billion years.For
Rathere, though, the lives of the lithomorphs were far more immediate. Likethe
AI minder, they were mentors, imaginary friends.Their immobility had taught
her to watch for the slightest of movements: thesweep of an analog clock's
minute hand, the transformation of a high cirruscloud, the slow descent of the
planet's old red sun behind the northernmountains. Their silence taught her to
read lips, to make messages in theripples of stone and metal that flowed as
slowly as glaciers in their wakes. Shefound a patient irony in their stances.
They were wise, but it wasn't the wisdomof an ancient tree or river; rather,
they seemed to possess the reserve of awatchfully silent guest at a
party.Rathere told stories about them to the starship's AI. Tales of their