"Peter F. Hamilton - Falling Stones" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hamilton Peter F)

Falling Stones
Peter F. Hamilton


From the short story collection 'In Dreams' edited by Paul McAuley and Kim
Newman (1992)

v1.0 by the N.E.R.D's. Scanned, page numbers removed, paragraphs joined, formatted, common OCR
errors have been removed and a full spell check is complete. Full read-through still required.

v1.1 Full read through completed by the N.E.R.D's

There are plenty of political SF stories, but it's rare to find anything other than masturbatory
power fantasies; even rarer to find a genuinely funny political SF story. In 'Falling Stones' Peter F.
Hamilton does for what Saddam Hussein has called 'The Mother of All Parliaments' what
Screaming Lord Sutch and his Monster Raving Loony Party has done for by-elections, and hits
more targets with greater precision than a whole flock of cruise missiles. After you've read this,
neither Yesterday in Parliament nor Top of the Pops will never seem the same again.

A notorious bon viveur and gourmand, and an accomplished circumaquatic cyclist, Peter F.
Hamilton has published a clutch of short stories in small press magazines such as R.E.M. and Far
Point, and has also contributed to the second issue of New Worlds. His first novel, Mindstar Rising,
should be out any time soon. He says of 'Falling Stones', 'I've never written anything like it before
or since, nor was it written specifically for In Dreams. I tend to write hard SF, not alternate worlds
and satire, but after this, I might be tempted to write another. I think it might have its origins in
the superbly self-important interviews rock stars inflict on the rest of us, telling us how much
better the world would be if they were running it. Combine this with the depressingly large
number of seventies albums (yes, real vinyl!) in my collection, and I suppose the result was
inevitable.'

Inevitable? Maybe. Predictable? Like, no way, man.

Waking up is such a drag, the frost pixies are chewing on my fingers and toes again. The numbness has
grown over the last few years, dropping too many scores. But screw that. Doctors are in league with
Stashburners if you ask me. Stiff-culture members wearing wax-smile masks.

Something in the air, sour, like love left bleeding. But then, this is the day, they say. The heavy duty
politico journalists like Steve Wright and Simon Bates over on Radio Caroline, carping on about how he
is going to do it today. I don't want to believe them. Wouldn't, except for the portents, they're hyper.

Today is November the twenty-second nineteen-ninety, and it's going to be a real freak of a downer. My
astrological movements have fallen into a long dark eclipse; my numerology chart adds up to the height of
the great pyramid cubed. It doesn't come any worse; every bad vibe in the world twanging into focus,
tearing at our mother Gaia, sundering us from her love. On days like this we could drown in her tears.

Then on top of all that, there's Keith. He's out now, the clinic let him go after they'd exorcised his demon.
Totally dried out, clean line sober, and lusting after what he'd been shut out from all these years. He might
just do it.
He's not in tune any more, a lone groover. Ask me, and clinics make your mind ill. Straighten You Out.
Who needs it? We didn't get where we are today by thinking Straight.