"Rhys Hughes - The Singularity Spectres" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hughes Rhys)

wooden crate and an escalator. Beating heart, steaming organs, stringy nerves, clanking bones, generous
brainpan, miserly muscles: these formed the boardwalk on which my spirit could balance above the chasm.
Once my vital spark was extinguished, the bridge would collapse and the ghost tumble an unimaginable
distance into Limbo. I sought to reassure it by patting my stomach. "Don't fret, soul, I'm in reasonably good
health!"

Chuckling at my naivety, Zimara informed me that the mortal body is soundproof and that my ghost
wouldn't be able to hear me. This may be so for most others, but I once had my appendix removed and the
wound hadn't healed properly. I felt a knocking on the inside of my skull: my spectre was appreciating my
reassurance.

Our velocity kept increasing. Retrieval of suitcases rapidly became more hazardous. Each stop for
supplies turned Zimara's gauntlet into the hand of a genie; smoke writhed up the shaft. Eventually we had
collected so many cases there was no more space in the crate to store them. Now we affixed them to the
line at the rear of our vehicle. Bouncing behind us, they rendered sleep difficult. I slung my camera around my
neck, just in case more phantoms passed us in the shaft, but my guide warned me of the unlikelihood of this
event. Not only would somebody have to die directly over the escalator, but die at an angle. Otherwise the
spirit would slip vertically through the world and we wouldn't get to see it. Even wraiths have to obey the laws
of geometry.

As the days wore on, I found that the effects of rising temperature were cancelled out by the breeze
generated by our mounting speed. Sundry factors contributed to our acceleration -- stronger gravity, larger
mass, a decreased counterweight. The trauma of each new stop trumped what went before and I developed
an interest in knowing our terminal velocity when we attained our destination. Would we dash ourselves to
bits at the base of the shaft? My guide was amused.

"Don't worry, Professor, the second half of the voyage will be more sedate. Indeed, it will be a jaunt.
When we encounter the last suitcase, we'll transfer it to the crate and tie the empty ones in its place. Once
restored to the other side, they'll help to arrest our motion. It's very simple. Before contacting you, I made a
model on my stairs and it worked superbly. I used matchboxes and thread. Also, we'll stuff the cases with
our empty bottles during the exchange. We can judge the weight perfectly by adding or subtracting garbage."

"But what if we miss the final suitcase? They're speeding upward so quickly now we might not be able to
brake in time! Do you have plans for that eventuality? If so, tell me!"

For the first time, Zimara seemed honestly flustered. "No, we can't afford to miss the last grab. We'll
keep constant watch from now on with your lens. We'll take it in turns. Remember: the interval between
spying the case and applying the brake will be minuscule. The exact instant you see a dot, scream yourself
silly!"

I had no choice but to be satisfied with this suggestion. From that moment, the telescope was rarely
detached from one or other of our eyes. Somehow, the hours of keeping watch began to shift to my side, until
the greater burden was upon my orbit. I was only permitted a couple of hours sleep for every dozen Zimara
enjoyed. During one of my infrequent rests, I was awakened by a change in our rate of descent -- it had
substantially increased. Something was wrong.

With considerable alarm, I discovered my guide had dozed off during his watch. I shook him back to
consciousness and wailed, "We're supposed to be gaining speed by degrees. Why are we moving so fast?"
He rubbed at his eyes and peered over the side. His tone betrayed a terror I'd deemed him incapable of
feeling. Absorbing his sense of dread, my teeth started to audition for an orchestra, percussion section. I