"Kim Stanley Robinson - Sixty Days and Counting" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robinson Kim Stanley)

injured, and perhaps not good to begin with.
“—but now we can probably use that information to find out his cover identity, for a
start.”
“I don’t know the address.”
“Well, you need to get it. Also the names on the doorbell plate, if there are any. But
the apartment number for sure.”
“Okay, I’ll go back.”
“Good. Be discreet. With that information, my friends could help you take it further.
Given what’s happened, they might give it a pretty high priority, to find out who he
really works for.”
“And who do your friends work for?”
“Well. They’re scattered around. It’s a kind of internal check group.”
“And you trust them on this kind of stuff?”
“Oh yes.” There was a reptilian look in Edgardo’s eye that gave Frank a shiver.



IN THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED, Frank passed his hours feeling baffled,
and, under everything else, afraid. Or maybe, he thought, the feeling would be better
characterized as extreme anxiety. He would wake in the mornings, take stock,
remember where he was: in the Khembali embassy house’s garden shed, with Rudra
snoring up on the bed and Frank on his foam mattress on the floor.
The daylight slanting through their one window would usually have roused him. He
would listen to Rudra’s distressed breathing, sit up and tap on his laptop, look at the
headlines and the weather forecast, and Emersonforthe day.com:

We cannot trifle with this reality, this cropping-out in our planted gardens of the core
of the world. No picture of life can have any veracity that does not admit the odious
facts. A man’s power is hooped in by a necessity which, by many experiments, he
touches on every side until he learns its arc.

Maybe Emerson too had been hit on the head. Frank wanted to look into that. And
he needed to look into Thoreau, too. Recently the keepers of the site had been
posting lots of Henry David Thoreau, Emerson’s young friend and occasional
handyman. Amazing that two such minds had lived at the same time, in the same
town—even for a while the same house. Thoreau, Frank was finding in these
morning reads, was the great philosopher of the forest at the edge of town, and as
such extremely useful to Frank—often more so, dare he say it, than the old man
himself.
Today’s Thoreau was from his journal:

I never feel that I am inspired unless my body is also. It too spurns a tame and
commonplace life. They are fatally mistaken who think, while they strive with their
minds, that they may suffer their bodies to stagnate in luxury or sloth. A man thinks
as well through his legs and arms as his brain. We exaggerate the importance and
exclusiveness of the headquarters. Do you suppose they were a race of
consumptives and dyspeptics who invented Grecian mythology and poetry? The
poet’s words are, “You would almost say the body thought!” I quite say it. I trust
we have a good body then.