"Rudy Rucker - Realware" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rucker Rudy)

always see it in his bright brown eyes — he knew. He knew more than anyone could teach him, and he spent his life
exploring the world of ideas. Nothing else mattered to him. I used to say, 'Kurt, why don't you get a Ph.D. and work at a
university?' 'I don't have time, Mom,' he'd say. 'I'm too busy.' And all he'd be doing would be sitting in his armchair
looking at a sunbeam. Too busy. Maybe Kurt knew he wouldn't have as much time as the rest of us." She gave a mild,
rueful laugh and wiped her eyes. "Kurt was so excited about his last discoveries, about his dimensions and his wowos.
I only hope that some good can still come of them. We're all trying to understand this death. What happened? I'd like
to think that Kurt knew—and that somewhere he's still knowing. My son was an explorer."

Willow spoke next. The gimmie had cleared Willow of any wrongdoing; the cause of death had been written off as a
freak electrical phenomenon, perhaps ball lightning, perhaps a corona discharge from Kurt and Tre's holographic
wowo projection equipment. Willow looked stunning, slim and chic in a black wool suit, her face composed and perfect
below her shiny bright hair.

"He was the best man I've ever known," Willow was saying. "He shouldn't be forgotten. And I've been working to set
up a fitting memorial. The trustees of the Bass School have agreed to start a Kurt Gottner Scholarship Fund. An
anonymous donor has agreed to match dollar-for-dollar any pledges made to this fund today. So please give
generously."

"Sell it, Willow," Phil murmured to Jane.

Pretty soon one of the Bass administrators was speaking, a Doctor Peck, stringing together a line of fund-raising
platitudes. "Bass School one big family. . . Kurt Gottner the quintessential . . . quick mind and open inquiry . . . such a
special place . . . your unique opportunity . . . Kurt Gottner Scholarship Fund .. ."

Phil couldn't listen anymore. There were as many people standing as sitting, so he felt free to sidle out of his seat and
wander over toward the deck of the school building where some little kids were already nosing around a big table full
of canapes catered by the Bass School parents. Funeral meats. Phil cast a professional eye over the spread. He could
have done a much better job, but oh well. He ate a salty deviled egg and a crustless triangle of bread with tank-grown
salmon. Now a town councilman was butt-kissing the mourners, marveling at how "eukaryotic" was the nucleus of the
Bass School community for Palo Alto at large.

Phil pushed open the big glass-paned front door and went inside the school, flashing back to his years here as a
student. Fourth through eighth grades, with Da a genial distant figure teaching math and uvvy graphics to the seniors.
Eve happy at home, taking care of them all, doing uvvy work for her family's olive-import business by running a
dragonfly camera that talked to farmers in Greek. Those had been cozy years. The little family, the parade of days.

Phil walked down the creaky wood-floored hall, looking at the rows of pictures by primary-school students on display.
Lots of hearts; odd as it seemed, today was Valentine's Day. Monday the hearts would come down, and spring flowers
would be next. Or perhaps dead presidents. George Birthington's Washday, his English teacher had liked to call it—a
bit of wordplay that Phil had found the very apex of worldly wit. The old school smelled the same as ever. Yes, it had
been peaceful here until Willow appeared. She'd flown in like some bright magpie, snatching up Phil's woolly father for
her nest.

"Are you a teacher?"

Phil's reverie popped. A slender dark-haired girl his age was looking at him. Her jawline was strikingly angled, her eyes
clear, her mouth intelligent and kind. Her one nonidealized feature was her nose, which was a bit larger than normal,
though it sat quite harmoniously in the calm oval of her face.

"Me? My father was the teacher."