"Robert Charles Wilson - The Chronoliths" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson Robert Charles)

nameless and perfect destination.
тАЬSo that sound last night,тАЭ Hitch said, beginning this conversation the way he
began most, without preamble, as if we had been apart for no significant time,
тАЬlike a Navy jet, you heard that?тАЭ
I had. IтАЩd heard it about four a.m., shortly after Janice stomped off to bed. Kaitlin
was asleep at last, and I was alone at our burn-scarred linoleum kitchen table with a

file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Wilson,%20Robert%20Charles%20-%20The%20Chronoliths%20(v1.1).html (2 of 212)8-12-2006 23:46:54
THE CHRONOLITHS by Robert Charles Wilson


cup of sour coffee. The radio was linked to a U.S. jazz station, turned down to
polite chatter.
The broadcast had turned brittle and strange for about thirty seconds. There was a
crack of thunder and a series of rolling echoes (HitchтАЩs тАЬNavy jetтАЭ), and a little
after that an odd cold breeze rattled JaniceтАЩs potted bougainvilleas against the
window. The window blinds lifted and fell in a soft salute; KaitlinтАЩs bedroom door
opened by itself, and she turned in her netted crib and made a soft unhappy sound
but didnтАЩt wake.
Not quite a Navy jet, but it might have been summer thunder, a newborn or
senescent storm mumbling to itself out over the Bay of Bengal. Not unusual, this
time of year.
тАЬParty of caterers stopped by the Duc this morning and bought all our ice,тАЭ Hitch
said. тАЬHeading for some rich manтАЩs dacha. They said there was real action out by
the hill road, like fireworks or artillery. A bunch of trees blew down. Want to go
see, Scotty?тАЭ
тАЬAs well one thing as another,тАЭ I said.
тАЬWhat?тАЭ
тАЬMeans yes.тАЭ


It was a decision that would change my life beyond repair, but I made it on a
whim. I blame Frank Edwards.
Frank Edwards was a Pittsburgh radio broadcaster of the last century who
compiled a volume of supposedly true miracle lore (Stranger Than Science, 1959),
featuring such durable folktales as the Mystery of Kaspar Hauser and the
тАЬspaceshipтАЭ that blew up over Tunguska, Siberia, in 1910. The book and its
handful of sequels were big items in our household when I was naive enough to
take such things seriously. My father had given me Stranger Than Science in a
battered library-discard edition and I had finished itтАФat the age of tenтАФin three
late-night sessions. I suppose my father considered this the kind of material that
might stimulate a boyтАЩs imagination. If so, he was right. Tunguska was a world
away from the gated Baltimore compound where Charles Carter Warden had
planted his troubled wife and only child.
I outgrew the habit of believing this sort of thing, but the word тАЬstrangeтАЭ had
become a personal talisman. Strange, the shape of my life. Strange, the decision to
stay in Thailand after the contracts evaporated. Strange, these long days and
drugged nights on the beaches at Chumphon, Ko Samui, Phuket; strange as the
coiled geometry of the ancient Wats.