"Kim Stanley Robinson - Fifty Degrees Below" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robinson Kim Stanley)

He slipped off in a different direction, down through windrows of detritus, then over
hardened mud between trees. Branches clicked damply underfoot. It got steeper than he
thought it would, and he stepped sideways to keep from slipping.
Then he heard another sound, quieter than the voices. A soft rustle and a creak, then a
faint crack from the forest below and ahead. Something moving.
Frank froze. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up. Whatever it was, it
sounded big. The article in the Post had mentioned that many of the animals from the
National Zoo had not yet been recaptured. All had been let loose just before the zoo was
inundated, to give them a chance of surviving.
Some had drowned anyway; most had been recovered afterward; but not all. Frank
couldn't remember if any species in particular had been named in the article as being
still at large. It was a big park of course. Possibly a jaguar had been mentioned.
He tried to meld into the tree he was leaning against.
Whatever it was below him snapped a branch just a few trees away. It sniffed; almost
a snort. It was big, no doubt about it.
Frank could no longer hold his breath, but he found that if he let his mouth hang
open, he could breathe without a sound. The tock of his heartbeat in the soft membrane
at the back of his throat must surely be more a feeling than a sound. Most animals relied
on scent anyway, and there was nothing he could do about his scent. A thought that
could reduce one's muscles to jelly.
The creature had paused. It huffed. A musky odor that wafted by was almost like the
smell of the flood detritus. His heart tocked like Captain Hook's alarm clock.
A slow scrape, as of shoulder against bark. Another branch click. A distant car horn.
The smell now resembled damp fur. Another crunch of leaf and twig, farther down the
slope.
When he heard nothing more, and felt that he was alone again, he beat a retreat uphill
and west, back to the streets of the city. It was frustrating, because now he was intrigued,
and wanted to explore the park further. But he didn't want to end up one of those urban
fools who ignored the reality of wild animals and then got chomped. Whatever that had
been down there, it was big. Best to be prudent, and return another time.

After the gloom of the park, all Connecticut seemed as garishly illuminated as the
work site down the street. Walking back to his car, Frank thought that the neighborhood
resembled one of the more handsome Victorian districts of San Francisco. It was late
now, the night finally cooling off. He could drive all night and never find a room.
He stood before his car. The Honda's passenger seat tilted back like a little recliner.
The nearest streetlight was down at the corner.
He opened the passenger door, moved the seat all the way back, lowered it, slipped
in and sat down. He closed the door, lay back, stretched out. After a while he turned on
his side and fell into an uneasy sleep.
For an hour or two. Then passing footsteps woke him. Anyone could see him if they
looked. They might tap the window to see if he was okay. He would have to claim to be
a visiting reporter, unable to find a room—very close to the truth, like all the best lies.
He could claim to be anyone really. Out here he was not bound to his real story.
He lay awake, uncomfortable in the seat, pretty sure he would not be able to fall back
asleep; then he was lightly under, dreaming about the woman in the elevator. A part of
his mind became aware that this was unusual, and he fought to stay submerged despite
that realization. He was speaking to her about something urgent. Her face was so clear,
it had imprinted so vividly: passionate and amused in the elevator, grave and distant on
the boat in the flood. He wasn't sure he liked what she was telling him. Just call me, he