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

fish through water. It was second nature to her. Lynn brushed her
hair back and leaned forward, arms between her legs, tapping the
keys, surprised when the time floating near her right hand blinked
2:00 a.m., then 3:00. She teased out layer after layer of information.
Many paths led to Kohala, the great northern peninsula of the Big
Island, where Kamehameha had been born. The Homelanders had
been awarded this land long ago as part of a legal settlement. Lynn
hit a wall every time she ventured near; suddenly an old-time
thatched longhouse would appear, or a brief icon-like movie of a
woman pounding poi—something bland and traditional.
She caught a glimpse once of a high-tech corridor, and,
disappearing out a door, someone wearing full spacewalk regalia.
But that flashed white and vanished and she couldn’t get it back.
There was some sort of very effective gatekeeper, human or AI.
Well, anyway, she had other things to find out.
As her eyes grew heavy, she set up the search, pushed a final key,
then shoved the pillows back on the carpet and lay down with her
head on one of them.
Morning was wild with birdsong, which woke her, rising in
volume as the dawn grew. Still lying down, she opened her eye.
The air was filled with something gorgeous. The time elapsed
note showed that it had taken two hours, forty-six minutes, and
twenty-three seconds to find it.
Lynn sank onto the black cushions in front of the wraparound,
hunched forward, tapped keys through the vee of her knees, long,
slim brown fingers sure and mistakeless despite excitement. Smooth
calmness enveloped her and was echoed in the ageless blue of the
sea beyond a Honolulu muted by forty-three stories, silver-glitter toy
city.
She enlarged a segment of genescan from a certain Bone
Fragment #4283, Hawaiian, Male.
What was the marker for navigational capabilities? And,
extrapolating from that, the marker for navigation of mathematical
spaces as well? She switched to a statistical program that analyzed
this pattern, the A,T,G, and C of him.
 Few pure Polynesians left. Yet they were the ones who had
traveled by star, for whom the earth, or sea, truly did stop, while the
stars moved overhead in a time/space reversal that sprang not from
reality but from their minds. In fact, she recalled that one of the old
navigators had hastened to assure a professor doing research that
the sailors knew they were moving, rather than all that was around
them, but that they maintained this state of mind in order to
navigate correctly.
Yes, here it was. She quickly made some tea, then sat again, lay
one leg flat, bent at the knee, and leaned one elbow on her other
thigh. Her tongue tingled from a sip of bittersweet anquela tea, and
the heavy sweet scent of her neighbor’s plumeria drifted across the
open expanse of her lanai. And still she stared, holding her breath,
as she made the DNA dance before her.
Why was the marker for creativity—for adventure, for great, open