"Dan Simmons - Phases of Gravity" - читать интересную книгу автора (Simmons Dan)

Part One Poona
Part Two Glen Oak
Part Three Uncompahgre
Part Four Lonerock
Part Five Bear Butte
Phases of Gravity
 Part One
______________


Poona

Pan Am Flight 001 left the moonlight behind it and dropped into clouds and darkness as it felt its
way toward a landing in New Delhi. Staring out at the port wing, Baedecker felt the weight
pulling at him and mixing with the tension of an old pilot being forced to suffer a landing as a
passenger. The wheels touched tarmac in an almost perfect touchdown and Baedecker glanced at
his watch. It was 3:47 A.M. local time. Tiny motes of pain danced behind his eyes as he looked
out past the flashing wingtip light at the dark silhouettes of water towers and service buildings
moving past. The massive 747 swung sharply to the right and rolled to the end of its taxi run.
The sound of engines swelled one final time and then dropped into silence, leaving Baedecker
with the tired pounding of his own pulse in his ears. He had not slept for twenty-four hours.
Even before the shuffling line reached the forward exit, Baedecker felt the wave of heat and
humidity strike him. Descending the ramp toward the sticky asphalt, he became aware of the
tremendous mass of the planet under him, weighted even further by the hundreds of millions of
wretched souls populating the subcontinent, and he hunched his shoulders against the inexorable
pull of depression.
I should have done the credit card commercial, thought Baedecker. He stood in the gloom
with the other passengers and waited for a blue-and-white jitney to approach them across the
dark expanse of pavement. The terminal was a distant blur of lights on the horizon. Clouds
reflected the rows of blinking lights beyond the runway.
It would not have been very difficult. All they had asked of him was to sit in front of the
cameras and lights, smile, and say, 'Do you know me? Sixteen years ago I walked on the moon.
That doesn't help me though when I want to reserve an airline seat or pay for dinner in a French
café.' Two more lines of such drivel and then the standard closing with his name being punched
out on the plastic card — RICHARD E. BAEDECKER.
The customs building was a huge, echoing warehouse of a place. Sodium yellow lights hung
from metal rafters and made people's skin look greasy and waxlike. Baedecker's shirt was
already plastered to his body in a dozen places. The lines moved slowly. Baedecker was used to
the officiousness of customs officials, but these black-haired, brown-shirted little men seemed to
be reaching for new heights of official unpleasantness. Three places in front of him in the line, an
older Indian woman stood with her two daughters, all three in cheap cotton saris. Impatient with
their replies, the agent behind the scratched counter dumped their two cheap suitcases on the
floor of the shed. Brightly printed cloth, bras, and torn underpants spilled out in a heap. The
customs man turned to another agent and said something in rapid Hindi that brought smirks to
their faces.
Baedecker was almost dozing when he realized that one of the customs men was talking to
him.
'Pardon me?'
 'I said — is this all you have to declare? You are bringing in nothing else?' The singsong of
Indian English seemed strangely familiar to Baedecker. He had encountered it with Indian hotel-