"Connie Willis - Schwarzschild Radius" - читать интересную книгу автора (Willis Connie)

The front roars and more of the roof crumbles. "It's all right! It's a disease!" I shout over it. "I have
brought you a letter to prove it," and hand him the letter which I have been clutching in my unfeeling hand.

The doctor grabs the letter from me. Snow whirls down through the ruined roof, but Schwarzschild does
not put on his shirt. He watches uninterestedly as the doctor reads the letter.

" 'The symptoms you describe are almost certainly those of Neumann's disease, or pemphigus vulgaris. I
have treated two patients with the disease, both Jews. It is a disease of the mucous membranes and is not
contagious. Its cause is unknown. It always ends in death.' " Dr. Funkenheld crumples up the paper.
"You came all this way in the middle of a bombardment to tell me there is no hope?" he shouts in a voice
I do not even recognize, it is so unlike his steady doctor's voice. "You should have tried to get away. You
should have—" and then he is gone under a crashing of dirt and splintered timbers.

I struggle toward Schwarzschild through the maelstrom of red dust and snow. "Put your shirt on!" I shout
at him. "We must get out of here!" I crawl to the door to see if we can get out through the communication
trench.

Muller bursts through the blanket. He is carrying, impossibly, the wireless. The headphones trail behind
him in the snow. "I came to see what had happened to you. I thought you were dead. The communication
trenches are shot to pieces."

It is as I had feared. His curiosity has got the best of him, and now he is trapped, too, though he seems
not to know it. He hoists the wireless onto the table without looking at it. His eyes are on Schwarzschild,
who leans against the remaining wall of the dugout, his shirt in his hands.

"Your shirt!" I shout, and come around to help Schwarzschild put it on over the craters and shell holes of
his blasted skin. The air screams and the mouth of the dugout blows in. I grab at Schwarzschild's arm,
and the skin of it comes off in my hands. He falls against the table, and the wireless goes over. I can hear
the splintering tinkle of the liquid barretter breaking, and then the whole dugout is caving in and we are
under the table. I cannot see anything.

"Muller!" I shout. "Where are you?"
"I'm hit," he says.

I try to find him in the darkness, but I am crushed against Schwarzschild. I cannot move. "Where are you
hit?"

"In the arm," he says, and I hear him try to move it. The movement dislodges more dirt, and it falls around
us, shutting out all sound of the front. I can hear the creak of wood as the table legs give way.

"Schwarzschild?" I say. He doesn't answer, but I know he is not dead. His body is as hot as the Primus
stove flame. My hand is underneath his body, and I try to shift it, but I cannot. The dirt falls like snow,
piling up around us. The darkness is red for a while, and then I cannot see even that.

"I have a theory," Muller says in a voice so close and so devoid of curiosity it might be mine. "It is the end
of the world."

"Was that when Schwarzschild was sent home on sick leave?" Travers said. "Or validated, or whatever
you Germans call it? Well, yeah, it had to be, because he died in March. What happened to Muller?"