"Michael Swanwick - Triceratops Summer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

Triceratops Summer
Michael Swanwick
From Gardner Dozois - The Year's Best Science Fiction 23rd Annual Collection (2006)

Michael Swanwick made his debut in 1980, and, in the twenty-five years that have followed, has
established himself as one of SF's most prolific and consistently excellent writers at short lengths, as well
as one of the premier novelists of his generation. He has won the Theodore Sturgeon Award and the
Asimov's Readers Award poll. In 1991, his novel Stations of the Tide won him a Nebula Award as well,
and in 1995 he won the World Fantasy Award for his story "Radio Waves." He's won the Hugo Award
four times between 1999 and 2003, for his stories "The Very Pulse of the Machine," "Scherzo with
Tyrannosaur," "The Dog Said Bow-Wow," and "Slow Life." His other books include the novels In the
Drift, Vacuum Flowers, The Iron Dragons Daughter (which was a finalist for the World Fantasy Award
and the Arthur C. Clarke Award, a rare distinction!), Jack Faust, and, most recently, Bones of the Earth,
as well as a novella-length book, Griffins Egg. His short fiction has been assembled in Gravity's Angels, A
Geography of Unknown Lands, Slow Dancing Through Time (a collection of his collaborative short work
with other writers); Moon Dogs, Puck Aleshire's Abecedary, Tales of Old Earth, Cigar-Box Faust and
Other Miniatures, and Michael Swanwick's Field Guide to the Mesozoic Megafauna. He's also published
a collection of critical articles, The Postmodern Archipelago, and a book-length interview, Being Gardner
Dozois. His most recent book is a new collection, The Periodic Table of SF, and he is at work on a new
novel. He's had stories in our Second, Third, Fourth, Sixth, Seventh, Tenth, and Thirteenth through
Twenty-first Annual Collections. Swanwick lives in Philadelphia with his wife, Marianne Porter. He has a
Web site at www.michaelswanwick.com.

Here's a poignant and lyrical reaffirmation of the idea that sometimes it matters more how you spend your
time than how much time you have to spend…

The dinosaurs looked all wobbly in the summer heat shimmering up from the pavement. There were
about thirty of them, a small herd of what appeared to be Triceratops. They were crossing the road
—don't ask me why—so I downshifted and brought the truck to a halt, and waited.

Waited and watched.

They were interesting creatures, and surprisingly graceful for all their bulk. They picked their way
delicately across the road, looking neither to the right nor the left. I was pretty sure I'd correctly identified
them by now—they had those three horns on their faces. I used to be a kid. I'd owned the plastic
models.

My next-door neighbor, Gretta, who was sitting in the cab next to me with her eyes closed, said, "Why
aren't we moving?"

"Dinosaurs in the road," I said.

She opened her eyes.

"Son of a bitch," she said.

Then, before I could stop her, she leaned over and honked the horn, three times. Loud.

As one, every Triceratops in the herd froze in its tracks, and swung its head around to face the truck.
I practically fell over laughing.