"Gene Wolfe - Memorare" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wolfe Gene)

Possibly, the system (whatever it was) had detected the imposture. He tried to
make the second corpse more lifelike even than the first.
Still nothing.
What if a corpse appeared to be entering? A few determined pulls on his
lifeline got him plenty of slack. Hooking it to the third corpse, he held the thin orange
line with one hand while he launched the corpse with the other. When it had left the
memorial, a gentle tug brought it in again.
The blade flashed from its crevice, savaged the corpse's already-ruined suit,
and flung the corpse toward him.
"You've got a new servant," March muttered, "whoever you were." Playing it
safe, he went out the way he had come in--fast and high.
Outside, he switched on his mike. "We just saw how dangerous a small
percentage of these memorials are, a danger that poisons all the rest, both for
mourners and for harmless tourists who might like to visit them. A program for
identifying and destroying the few dangerous ones is badly needed."
Propelled by his suit jets, he circled the memorial, getting a little more footage
he would probably never use. His digicorder had room for more images than he
would ever need. Those millions upon millions of images were the one thing with
which he could be generous, even profligate.
"Someone perished here," he told the mike, "far beyond the orbit of Mars.
Other someones, employees or followers, family or friends, built his memorial--and
built it as a trap, so that their revered dead might be served.... Where? In the spirit
world? In Paradise? Nirvana? Heaven?
 "Or Hell. Hell is possible, too."
Flowing letters, beautiful and alien, danced upon the curving walls. Arabic,
perhaps, or Sanskrit. It would be well, March thought, to show enough of it that
people would recognize it and stay away. For the present, the corpses floating
outside it might be warning enough. His digicorder zoomed in before he switched it
off and returned to his scarred olive-drab hopper.
****
There was an Ethermail from Kit when he woke. He washed, shaved, and
dressed before bringing her onto his screen.
"Hi there, Windy! Gettin' lonely out there in the graveyard?"
She was being jaunty, but even a jaunty Kit could make his palms sweat.
"Well, listen up. Have I got a deal for you! You get me to em-cee this terminal
travelogue you're makin'. As an added bonus, you get a gal-pal of mine. Her name's
Robin Redd, and she's a sound tech who can double in makeup.
"What's more, we come free! Absolutely free, Windy, unless you can peddle
your turkey. In which case we'll expect a tiny little small cut. And residuals.
"So whadda you say? Gimme the nod quick, `cause Bad Bill's pushin' me to
come back. Corner office, park my hopper on the roof with the big boys, and the
money ain't hopscotch `n' hairballs either. So lemme know."
Abruptly, the jauntiness vanished. "Either way, you've got to be quick,
Windy. Word is that Pubnet's shooting something similar out around Mars."
He said, "Reply," and took a deep breath. It was always hard to breathe when
he tried to talk to Kit. Yes, even when she was three hundred million miles away.
"Kit, darling, you know how much I'd love to have you out here with me,
even if it were just one day. I want you and I want to make you a superstar. You
know that, too."
He paused, wishing he dared cough. "I couldn't help noticing that you didn't