"Michael Swanwick - Stations of the Tide" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

phragmites, and gnarled water oaks. Startled, a clutch of acorn-mimetic octopi dropped from a low
branch, brown circles of water fleeing as they jetted into the silt.
"Smell that air," Korda's surrogate said.
The bureaucrat sniffed. He smelled the faint odor of soil from the baskets of hanging vines, and a
sweet whiff of droppings from the wicker birdcages. "Could use a cleansing, I suppose."
"You have no romance in your soul." The surrogate leaned against the windowsill, straight-armed,
looking like a sentimental skeleton. The flickering image of Korda's face reflected palely in the glass. "I'd
give anything to be down here in your place."
"Why don't you, then?" the bureaucrat asked sourly. "You have seniority."
"Don't be flippant. This is not just another smuggling case. The whole concept of technology control is
at stake here. If we let just one self-replicating technology through -- well, you know how fragile a planet
is. If the Division has any justification for its existence at all, it's in exactly this sort of action. So I would
appreciate it if just this once you would make the effort to curb your negativism."
"I have to say what I think. That's what I'm being paid for, after all."
"A very common delusion." Korda moved away from the window, bent to pick up an empty candy
dish, and glanced at its underside. There was a fussy nervousness to his motions, strange to one who had
actually met him. Korda in person was heavy and lethargic. Surrogation seemed to bring out a
submerged persona, an overfastidious little man normally kept drowned in flesh. "Native pottery always
has an unglazed area on the bottom, have you noticed?"
"That's where it stands in the kiln." Korda looked blank. "This is a planet, it has a constant gravity.
You can't fire things in zero gravity here."
With a baffled shake of his head Korda put down the dish. "Was there anything else you wanted to
cover?" he asked.
"I put in a Request For--"
"--Authority. Yes, yes, I have it on my desk. I'm afraid it's right out of the question. Technology
Transfer is in a very delicate position with the planetary authorities. Now don't look at me like that. I
routed it through offworld ministry to the Stone House, and they said no. They're touchy about intrusions
on their autonomy down here. They sent the Request straight back. With restrictions -- you are
specifically admonished not to carry weapons, perform arrests, or in any way represent yourself as
having authority to coerce cooperation on your suspect's part." He reached up and tilted a basket of
vines, so he could fossick about among them. When he let it go, it swung irritably back and forth.
"How am I going to do my job? I'm supposed to -- what? -- just walk up to Gregorian and say,
Excuse me, I have no authority even to speak to you, but I have reason to suspect that you've taken
something that doesn't belong to you, and wonder if you'd mind terribly returning it?"
There were several writing desks built into the paneling under the windows. Korda swung one out and
made a careful inventory of its contents: paper, charcoal pens, blotters. "I don't see why you're being so
difficult about this," he said at last. "Don't pout, I know you can do it. You're competent enough when
you put your mind to it. Oh, and I almost forgot, the Stone House has agreed to assign you a liaison.
Someone named Chu, out of internal security."
"Will he have authority to arrest Gregorian?"
"In theory, I'm sure he will. But you know planetary government -- in practice I suspect he'll be more
interested in keeping an eye on you."
"Terrific." Ahead, a pod of sounding clouds swept toward them, driven off of Ocean by winds born
half a world away. The Leviathan lifted its snout a point, then plunged ahead. The light faded to gray,
and rain drenched the heliostat. "We don't even know where to find the man."
Korda folded the desk back into the wall. "I'm sure you won't have any trouble finding someone who
knows where he is."
The bureaucrat glared out into the storm. Raindrops drummed against the fabric of the gas bag,
pounded the windows, and were driven down. Winds bunched the rain in great waves, alternating thick
washes of water with spates of relative calm. The land dissolved, leaving the airship suspended in chaos.