"Dave Smeds - A Marathon Runner in the Human Race" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smeds Dave)

A MARATHON RUNNER IN THE HUMAN RACE
By Dave Smeds
****

“A Marathon Runner in the Human Race” is a science fiction story set in the milieu
of Dave’s new novel, Ambassadors. Two other stories set in that world have already
been published: “Reef Apes” in Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, and “Suicidal
Tendencies” in Full Spectrum 4.

AUTUMN LEAVES FLOATED onto the patio. Neil Corbin counted them:
three from the maple, six from the ornamental plum. Another shifting of the seasons
— what did he care?

He keened his ears for the familiar chorus of shuffling shoes or the clicking of
Joe and Al’s daily game of dominoes. But not a person stirred, and none were
visible save crazy Anne over in the shade of the umbrella table. Were it not for the
birdsong in the trees, Neil would have sworn his deafness had never been cured.

A car turned into the driveway — another source of silence but for the low
moan of tires on concrete. The vehicle stopped mere yards from Neil’s chair. A
muscular, casually dressed young man emerged.

“Sorry I’m late, Gramps. Are you ready?”

Nell accepted his grandson’s help in rising. “You’re looking good,” the old
man said.

“You will, too, Gramps. Come on. The clinic’s expecting you.”

Nell removed his elbow from the young man’s grip. “I only move at one
speed, Matthew. You know that.” He padded toward the car, wobbling but making
steady progress.

Matthew rolled his eyes, piled the luggage in the trunk, and went to the
driver’s side.

“You forgot the trophy,” Neil said.

The item lay beside the chair where Neil had been sitting. Grumbling, Matthew
retrieved it, placing it in his grandfather’s lap rather than waste time reopening the
trunk.

Neil’s hands closed over the statuette above the bronze plate that bore his
name. His hands automatically stroked the contours of the running figure, but his
attention wandered elsewhere, soaking in one last view of the place that had been his
home for so long. His glance tracked to the empty, dusty windows of the far wing.
His room had been the third from the end, just over the sign reading “Shadyhome
Retirement Community.”

The once-immaculate grounds bore the first small signs of neglect. The grape