"Thomas Easton - Organic Future 01 - Sparrowhawk" - читать интересную книгу автора (Easton Thomas A)

Chapter One



FIVE-YEAR-OLD ANDY GILMAN, towheaded and gap-toothed, was kneeling on a
chair by the kitchen window. Half a dozen plastic Warbirds were scattered on
the floor beneath him. With the tip of one finger, he was writing his name in
the large smudge his nose had left on the glass. Suddenly he stiffened and
pointed beyond the pane. "Look, Daddy!" he cried. "See the bird! By the
feeder! A big one!"

Nick Gilman grinned and crossed the room in a stride. He looked, and the
kid was right. A Chickadee, the size of an old-fashioned Piper Cub, was on the
lawn beside the back porch. It wasn't wearing its two-seater passenger or
engine pods. As Nick watched, it cocked its head to one side, inserted its
beak between the shelf and the overhanging roof of the feeder, and seized a
mouthful of seeds. Then, shaking its head as if the treat had been more effort
than it was worth, it stepped back a pace.

As it did so, nongengineered birds of more normal size approached to try
to reach the seeds remaining in the feeder. Few succeeded, for as they
fluttered past the Chickadee, they fell prey instead to its darting beak. Nick
shuddered, remembering when all chickadees had been vegetarians. "C'mon, Andy.
We're in a rush. Gotta go get Mommy."

"But, Daddy! I wanna watch!"

Nick had no time for nonsense. Emily's jet would be late, of course, but
it was due in an hour, and he had to be there just in case she was on time
or--God forbid!--early. He should have left ten minutes before, but the
casserole had needed its finishing touches and he had had to adjust the oven
and he had had to run a comb through his hair and he had had to straighten the
throw rug that had slid beneath his feet and...It wasn't easy being a
househusband.

The radio began to mutter that, on this hot and muggy Tuesday in July of
2044, terrorist attacks were becoming more frequent, but he had no time to
listen. Nor did he care to think of what such a thing might mean for Emily, or
him, or their towheaded son. He turned it off and grabbed his jacket. Then he
picked the boy up in his arms, wiped the snot from the boy's nose with a
handkerchief, and rushed from the room.

Emily was a high-bracket gengineer, she would be back soon from her
trip--she had flown to Washington on Sunday to testify before a patent board
on Monday--he loved her dearly, and he didn't want to leave her waiting.
Sometimes he wished their roles were reversed, with him the one wandering the
world on high adventures and she the one at home in their small, old-fashioned
brick house. But his doctorate had been in Romantic Poets, there were fewer
new college students than ever, few colleges were hiring young faculty, and
his attempts at selling his own poems and short stories had earned him the