"Ian R. MacLeod - Home Time" - читать интересную книгу автора (Macleod Ian R)

never been to the Arctic, she filled my head with dreams of whiteness; a
once-upon-a-time continent that, at least until this last dreadful century,
remained almost untouched by man. She told me about Shackleton, Amundsen,
Scott.... Their names grew sharp for me as pavement frost. I saw them as
silhouettes in the wild white dark, hopeless and determined, their ships crushed
by the ice, death walking beside them, struggling endleasly back toward base
camp.

We have a picture show back at Epsilon when we've finished. We're all unusually
chatty. I don't know about Janey and Figgis, but for me the ordinary details we
found out there were the biggest shock. These men may be legends from my
childhood history, but here at the Pole they were just weary and afraid. They
left an inconsequential litter behind them. God knows why, but one of those
narrow bicycle repair tins was lying out on the rough ice. There were frozen dog
turds from the huskies, a Norwegian cigarette packet, a screwed-up wrapper of
Cadbury's chocolate. It almost looked like the remains of a picnic. I longed to
touch.

We kept the holocam running all of the time, and that's what we're watching now.
We didn't realize what we were doing at the time as we grouped self-consciously
around the tent and the flag, but our pose mimics with terrible clarity those
old shots of Amundsen's and Scott's teams doing the same thing. It's eerie. We
look almost as tired and afraid.

Janey makes dinner for a change. She ransacks the store for freeze dried plaice
and mushrooms, little balls of cardboardy rice. She looks at Figgis all the time
he eats. A peace offering, of course. He gets the message and rumbles male
comments about how good it tastes. And there's some acidic Frascati she's
reconstituted to loosen us up. We keep the conversation safe, going over ground
already worn smooth with repetition.

After coffee, I offer to clear up in the expectation that Janey and Figgis will
beat a swift retreat to the torpedo tubes to discuss more urgent matters. But
something goes wrong behind my back and Janey storms off alone, shouting You
Never this and Why Don't You that, leaving Figgis drumming his fingers on the
table and the cramped atmosphere colder than it is out there beyond the
porthole.

More than happy to stay out of it, I take a shower and give myself a good
rubdown, marveling at the swelling blue veins in my legs. Then I flop down
inside my Korean-sized torpedo tube balled up in my dressing gown. Faintly, I
can hear Janey still sobbing next door. I close my eyes. Relax, Woolley.
Tomorrow's a big day. The biggest. I wish I could imagine--

Figgis raps on the hatch. He wants to talk. I let him in.
"This all is so ordinary," he says, crouched between the little shelf and the
rim of the bunk. "Janey and I are arguing like kids. I wish I had your distance
from this kind of thing, Woolley."

"Didn't the College psychologists tell you what was going to happen when they