"Dann, Jack - Going Under" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dann Jack)

"Well, that's what I want."
"One would have to ask the steward for the more modern refreshments."
"You did say you wanted to live in the past," Stephen said to Esme, and ordered a Campari for her and a Drambuie for himself.
"Right now I would prefer a robot to take my order," Esme said.
"I'm sorry, but we have no robots on the ship either," the waiter said before he turned away.
"Are you going to show me what's inside the box?" Stephen asked.
"I don't like that man," Esme said.
"Esme, the box . . ."
"It might cause a stir if I opened it here."
"I would think you'd like that," Stephen said.
"You see, you know me intimately already." Then she smiled and winked at someone four tables away. "Isn't he cute?"

"Who?"
"The little boy with the black hair parted in the middle." She waved at him, but he ignored her and made an obscene gesture at a woman who looked to be his nanny. Then Esme opened the box, which drew the little boy's attention. She pulled out a full-sized head of a man and placed it gently beside the box.
"Jesus," Stephen said.
"Stephen, I'd like you to meet Poppa. Poppa, this is Stephen."
"I'm pleased to meetcha, Stephen," said the head in a full, resonant voice.
"Speak properly, Poppa," Esme said. "Meet you."
"Don't correct your father." The head rolled his eyes toward Stephen and then said to Esme, "Turn me a bit, so I can see your friend without eyestrain." The head had white hair, which was a bit yellowed on the ends. It was neatly trimmed at the sides and combed up into a pompadour in the front. The face was strong, although already gone to seed. It was the face of a man in his late sixties, lined and suntanned.
"What shall I call, uh, him?" Stephen asked.
"You may speak to me directly, son," said the head. "My given name is Elliot."
"Pleased to meetcha," Stephen said, recouping. He had heard of such things; but had never seen one before.
"These are going to be all the rage in the next few months," Esme said. "They aren't on the mass market yet, but you can imagine their potential for both adults and children. They can be programmed to talk and react very realistically."
"So I see," Stephen said.
The head smiled, accepting the compliment.
"He also learns and thinks quite well," Esme continued.
"I should hope so," said the head.
The room was buzzing with conversation. At the other end, a small dance band was playing a waltz. Only a few Europeans and Americans openly stared at the head; the
Africans and Asians, who were in the majority, pretended to ignore it. The little boy was staring unabashedly.
"Is your father alive?" Stephen asked.
"1 am her father," the head said, its face betraying its impatience. "At least give me some respect."
"Be civil, or I'll close you up," Esme said, piqued. She looked at Stephen. "Yes, he died recently. That's the reason I'm taking this trip, and that's the reason for this . . . ." She nodded to the head. "He's marvelous, though. He is my father in every way." Then, mischievously, she said, "Well, I did make a few changes. Poppa was very demanding, you know."
"You ungrateful-"
"Shut up. Poppa."
And Poppa simply shut his eyes.
"That's all I have to say," Esme said, "and he turns himself off. In case you aren't as perceptive as I think you are, I love Poppa very much."
The little boy, unable to control his curiosity any longer, came over to the table, just as Esme was putting Poppa back in the box. In his rush to get to the table, he knocked over one of the ivy pots along the wall. "Why'd you put him away?" he asked. "I want to talk to him. Take him out, just for a minute."
"No," Esme said firmly, "he's asleep just now. And what's your name?"
"Michael, and please don't be condescending."
"I'm sorry, Michael."
"Apology accepted. Now, please, can I see the head, just for a minute?"
"If you like, Michael, you can have a private audience with Poppa tomorrow," Esme said. "How's that?"
"But-"
"Shouldn't you be getting back to your nanny now?" Stephen asked, standing up and nodding to Esme to do the same. They would have no privacy here. -
"Stuff it," Michael said. "And she's not my nanny, she's
my sister." Then he pulled a face at Stephen; he was able to

contort his lips, drawing the right side toward the left and left toward the right, as if they were made of rubber. Michael followed Stephen and Esme out of the cafe and up the staircase to the Boat Deck.
The Boat Deck was not too crowded; it was brisk out, and the breeze had a chill to it. Looking forward, Stephen and Esme could see the ship's four huge smokestacks to their left and a cluster of four lifeboats to their right. The ocean was a smooth, deep green expanse turning to blue toward the horizon. The sky-was empty, except for a huge, nuclear-powered airship that floated high over the Titanic-the dirigible California, a French luxury liner capable of carrying two thousand passengers.
"Are you two married?" Michael asked, after pointing out the airship above. He trailed a few steps behind them.