"Robert F. Young - In Saturn's Rings" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

Greek was reputed to have made his fortune on? Matthew did not think so. Such a wine was far too
dear ever to have been distributed on the mass market. And besides, it was said that the real source of
the Christopoulos fortune was the synthetic gin which Antonia Anzalone had developed in her bathtub
before Nick the Greek had married her, and which the good citizens of Earth and the Seven Satraphies
had been incontinently consuming ever since.
Hera refilled the two glasses, and clapped her hands again тАФ twice, this time. Immediately Corinna
and another mech-maid, whose name was Psappho, began bringing in viands.
The amount and the quality of the food left Matthew speechless. The entree was Martian ptarmigan,
a delicacy which he had never tasted before. With each course a different kind of wine was served, none
of which he had ever tasted before either, and each of which was more potent than the last. All that
saved him from drunkenness was the quantity of food he consumed. And in the end this did not save him
either, for the meal proved to be no more than a foundation for the wine to come. There was red wine
and blue wine and amber wine, and there was even a red wine with a greenish cast which Hera said
came from the vineyards of Sirius XVIII's southernmost continent and had been aged in deep space.
Was there another wine, Matthew North wondered, a wine that she had not served him? тАФ a wine that
was a product of Bimini and which had also been aged in deep space?
He could not recall seeing any vineyards on Bimini, though, either during his orbits or during the
walks he had been forced to take while the android personnel loaded his capsule. About all he had ever
seen on Bimini were trees and more trees. That was all Bimini was, really тАФ or rather, all Bimini had
been. A big jungle in the sky.
Give or take a few lakes and rivers, of course тАФ and the saltwater sea that had recently kicked over
its traces.
The ship of small talk put into this port and that, Hera at the helm and Matthew sounding a polite note
of concurrence whenever he thought one was called for. Presently it ran aground on the subject of Greek
religious mythology. Hera dwelled lengthily on the Euhemeristic theory of the origin of the gods. "Then
you don't think they were true gods, after all?" Matthew asked at length.
She sipped her wine, set the glass back down. "On the contrary, I'm positive that they were true
gods. The mere fact that they were once mortal doesn't mean that they couldn't have become immortal.
Mortality is a necessary prelude to immortality, just as immortality is a necessary prelude to the
super-apotheosis which must logically follow. But aside from all that, the real proof of the immortality of
the Greek gods has been staring scholars in the face for centuries. And they have been too short-sighted
to see it."
"I тАФ I guess I'm too short-sighted too," Matthew said.
She laughed. It was a genuine enough laugh, but for some reason it deepened rather than lightened
the lines at her eye-corners. "They lived near mortals and had dealings with mortals when they could just
as easily have lived by themselves and had nothing to do with lesser beings," she explained. "Immortality,
you see, is relative. Living with other immortals exclusively and avoiding mortals, they would have been
unable to appreciate their superiority. Living near inferior beings and having dealings with them, they
could appreciate it. It's such a simple truth that the scholars have overlooked it, the way they've
overlooked so many simple truths. Scholars are stupid anyway тАФ almost as stupid as philosophers." She
faced the staircase. "Come on out, old man," she called, "and start cleaning off the table."

An android with a block-like head shuffled out from behind the staircase. His huge face was ugly
almost beyond belief. A straggly white beard dribbled down from cheeks and chin and upper lip into a
mop-like tangle. Only the eyes saved the sorry visage from complete catastrophe. They were a clear,
benevolent brown.
The letters embroidered on his tunic spelled Socrates.
He began collecting the dishes and the platters, and stacking them, his slab-like bare feet going
flap-flap-flap on the Pentelic marble floor. The dishes and platters stacked, he started carrying them
through the doorway to the right of the staircase. His movements were slow and clumsy. There was