"Adams, Scott - God's Debris v1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Adams Scott)

"Your door was unlocked," I said, as if that were reason enough to let myself in. "I have a package."

All I heard was the fire. I expected an answer. That's how it's supposed to work. When one person says something, the other is supposed to say something back. The old man wasn't subscribing.

He stared at me and rocked, sizing me up perhaps, or maybe he was lost in a reply. I already said what I needed to say, so I stood silently for what seemed too long. I thought I saw the wake of a smile, or maybe it was a muscle tremor. He spoke in the deliberate manner of a man who had not used his voice in days and asked a strange question.

"If you toss a coin a thousand times, how often will it come up heads?"

The elderly are spooky when they degenerate into reflections of their younger selves. They say things that make sense on some grammatical level, but it's not always connected to reality. I remembered my grandfather in his declining years, how he spoke in non-sequiturs. It was best to play along.

"About 50 percent of the time," I answered before changing the subject. "I need a signature for this package."

"Why?"

"Well," I said, measuring how much information to include in my response, "the person who sent the package wants a signature. He needs confirmation that it got delivered."

"I meant why does the coin come up heads 50 percent of the time?"

"I guess that's because the coin weighs about the same on both sides, so there's a 50-50 chance it will land on one side versus the other." I tried to avoid sounding condescending. I wasn't sure I succeeded.

"You haven't answered 'why.' You simply listed some facts."

I saw what was going on. The old man pulls this trick question on anyone who comes within range. There had to be a punch line or clever answer, so I played along.

"What's the answer?" I asked with all the artificial interest I could muster.

"The answer," he said, "is that the question has no why."

"You could say that about anything."

"No," he replied, in a manner that seemed suddenly coherent. "Every other question has an answer to why. Only probability is inexplicable."

I waited a moment for the punch line but it didn't come. "That's it?" I asked.

"It's more than it seems."

"I still need a signature." I approached the old man and held out the clipboard, but he made no motion to take it. I could see him better now. His skin was stained and wrinkled but his eyes were strikingly clear. Some gray hair gathered above each ear and his posture was an ongoing conversation with gravity. He wasn't old. He was ancient.

He gestured to the clipboard with his head. "You can sign it."

In the delivery business we made lots of exceptions for the elderly, so I didn't mind signing for him. I figured his hands or eyes weren't working as well as he liked and I could save him the frustration of working the pen.

"Avatar. A-v-a-t-a-r."

"It's for you," he said.

"What's for me?"

"The package."