"Kathleen Ann Goonan - The Bones of Time" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goose Mother)

added. Many genetic problems did not manifest for years and now it
was possible to begin to help those with potential problems when
they were young.
Mao would be an interesting addition to her library, and one that
was unique. As far as she knew no one had him.
Lynn pushed aside some papers on her desk and picked up
James’s note, studied it again, then tossed it back down. When she
had first opened it, she had added the passport code he’d included to
her passport—a thin blue pad filled with electronic identification
and records. The code would be activated by the Hong Kong agent
when she got off the plane, and it would tell him everything was
fine.
Then she had put it into her wallet, proof of her indecision. This
was an addiction, that was all, one she ought to break. Lately she
had entertained the thought of slipping away to a remote Buddhist
monastary somewhere in Cambodia or Japan.
Right, Lynn.
She reached across her desk now and picked up her passport,
opened it, and scrolled through the entries. Bangkok. Kathmandu.
Beijing. Narita, Narita, Narita. London. Cairo. Two, three trips a
year. She had to admit that she loved the travel, craved it, no matter
how sad she found the world. An image from Bombay often haunted
her—a shimmering holographic advertisement of a white, blond
family standing in front of a beautiful mansion casting faint
rainbows upon a dark-skinned family begging on the sidewalk
below.
Well. She couldn’t just mope. It would be something to do. Mao!
Hers, nearly exclusively, at least until she chose to release him to
the public. Just the thing to cheer her up. She pulled her wallet out
of her back pocket, slipped in the passport, returned the wallet to her
pocket. She could give it up later.
Sure. Stop kidding yourself. But don’t give yourself such a hard
time. Knowledge is neither good nor bad—it’s who uses it and how.
So who’s using what you learn? How? What for?
She tried not to think of Masa Elizabeth and looked over at her
hologram. Right now, she was studying the neurochemical
mediators of intelligence in humans and in human development,
linking them to various genetic markers. Or, at least, she had been,
before the miscarriage, and publishing results quite regularly in
various journals. She’d had as little as possible to do with IS in any
direct way for several years, save for her trips. There were things
that she just didn’t want to know. She had IS stock, but she’d quit
attending meetings years ago; her dividends were automatically
reinvested. The less she knew about the murky inner workings on
which her brothers thrived the better she felt. They could not
understand her lack of loyalty to Interspace and blamed it on her
mother, a Japanese scientist, who had died when Lynn was four,
after infusing her with independence. That was a quality the twins
couldn’t fathom.
Worried about possible uses and ramifications of some of her