[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
resting. At the second bend of the mountain trail, doubled over, hands
gripping his trembling knees, he sucked in jaggged volumes of air and puffed
them out, sweat dripping from his brow. He hadn't done much hiking or even
exercise for years, and unless he truly wanted to end this life, to overexert
on his first long hike was a foolish luxury. The miracles of Hexamon medicine
could only do what he had allowed them to do; that is, keep him reasonably
vigorous for his age and disease-free and unaffected by excess radiation, of
which he had an abiding horror.
His breath coming back to him, the pain in control now, he looked down from
the precipice trail at the valley floor three hundred meters below. Flocks of
sheep--maybe they belonged to Fremont, the young owner of Irishman Creek
Station flowed across the mottled green and sun-yellow grasslands, echoed by
great rain-heavy gray and white clouds crossing their own intense, dust-blue
pastures. Overhead, an eagle soared, the first he had seen this season. The
wind this high was cold and bracing even in the November springtime; a
thousand and more meters up the mountain there were still patches of snow,
dotted with the inevitable filamentary scarlet fungi the shepherds and farmers
called Christsblood.
He finally allowed himself to sit on a rock. His shins ached. His calf muscles
threatened to .knot. For the first time in months, maybe years, he actually
felt pretty good, justified somehow for existing.
The wind called his name. Startled, he turned around, looking for a hiker or
shepherd on the trail below or above, but saw no one. Satisfied the sound had
been an illusion, he pulled a goat-cheese sandwich from his backpack,
unwrapped it and began to eat.
The wind called him again, this time more clearly, closer. He stood and
glanced up the trail, frowning. The call had come from that direction, he was
sure of it. Stuffing the sandwich back in its wrapper, he marched around the
Page 27
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
second bend and a hundred yards up the trail, boots
file:///F|/rah/Greg%20Bear/Bear,%20Greg%20-%20Eternity.txt (41 of 355)
[5/21/03 12:34:12 AM]
file:///F|/rah/Greg%20Bear/Bear,%20Greg%20-%20Eternity.txt
SS · GREG BEAR
grinding into the pebbly surface and sliding on succulent grass still damp
with dew. He was alone on the trail.
Singing to keep his rhythm, he paused to catch his breath and let the clean
air pass into his blood, clear his mind of cobwebs gathered from months of
sitting indoors.
He needed to riddle his situation.
While pitying his fellow humans, he had also come to hate them. It seemed that
in their agony, more often than not they flailed about in a way that made
things worse. Sometimes, those who had been treated cruelly--losing homes,
family, cities, nations--had reacted by treating other survivors even more
cruelly.
Lanier's favorite reading of late had been the twentieth-century philosopher
and novelist Arthur Koestler, who had thought humankind fatally flawed in
design. Lanier had few doubts.
He had seen men, women, and even children subjected to deep psychological
probing and treatment, plucking out their demons, leaving them better adjusted
and better able to effectively confront the reality around them. Lanier had
simply stayed quiet in the dispute over such "healing."
The treatments had cut decades off the Recovery, yet he still could not decide
whether he approved. Were human beings such weak, ill-designed machines that
so few could heal themselves, self-diagnose, self-critique?
Obviously. He had become a pessimist, perhaps even a cynic, but there was a
part of himself that hated cynics; therefore, Q.E.D., he was not fond of
himself.
A wide mantle of cloud drifted over the land, a circular hole precisely in its
middle. He resumed his seat on the boulder by the trail and squinted at the
brilliance of the broad beacon of sunlight crossing the valley. So full of
warmth, so hypnotic, that kilometer-wide patch; if he simply let his mind
rest, sunlight on grass might answer all his questions.
He felt vague, sleepy, ready to set all his burdens down, lie back, let the
sun dissolve him like warm butter.
A few hundred meters up the trail, a man dressed in black and gray and
carrying a hiking stick descended toward him. Lanier wondered if this was the
voice in the wind; he wasn't sure whether he appreciated company or not. If
the man was a shepherd, fine, he could get along with rustics; but if he was a
daytripper from Christchurch . .
Perhaps the other hiker would ignore him.
"Hello," the man greeted him, boots crunching in the gravel behind
Lanier. Lanier turned. The hiker stood before the brilliant leading edge of
the cloud bank. His hair was dark, cut short; he was just under six feet
file:///F|/rah/Greg%20Bear/Bear,%20Greg%20-%20Eternity.txt (42 of 355)
[5/21/03 12:34:12 AM]
file:///F|/rah/Greg%20Bear/Bear,%20Greg%20-%20Eternity.txt
ETERNITY · S7
tall, young-looking, broad-shouldered, upper arms heavy with muscle.
He reminded Lanier of a young bull.
"Hi," Lanier said.
"I've been waiting for you to come up here and lead me down," the man said, as
if they were friends of long standing. Lanier identified his mild accent:
Russian.
Lanier frowned at him. "Do I know you?" he asked.
Page 28
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"Perhaps." The man smiled. "Our acquaintance was brief, many years ago."
Lanier's mind refused to dredge up where he had seen the man before. Puzzles
irritated him.
"Memory fails me, I'm afraid." He turned away.
"We were enemies once," the man said, seeming to enjoy the exchange.
He did not come any closer, however, holding his stick in front of him.
Lanier glanced back at him again. He wasn't warmly dressed and carried no
backpack. He couldn't have been on the mountain for long.
"You're one of the Russians that invaded Thisfiedown?" Lanier asked.
His question, asked of a man so obviously young, was not stupid, though it
might have been once. The hiker didn't appear to be over forty; still, he
might have undergone youth therapy on one of the orbiting bodies or in the
Hexamon Earth stations.
"Yes."
"What brings you all the way out here?"
"There's some work to do, important work. I need your help."
Lanier held out his hand. "I'm retired." The stranger helped him to his feet.
"Those days were very long ago. What's your name?"
"I'm disappointed you don't remember me," the man said petulantly.
"Mirsky. Pavel Mirsky."
Lanier laughed. "Good try," he said. "Mirsky's the other side of heaven by
now. He rode the Oeshel precincts and the Way sealed up behind him. But I
appreciate your joke."
"No joke, friend."
Lanier searched the man's features carefully. By God, he did resemble
Mirsky.
"Did Patricia Vasquez ever find her way home?' the man asked.
"Who knows? I'm not in the mood for guessing games. And what the hell do you
care?" Lanier surprised himself with his vehemence.
"I would like to find her again."
"Fat bloody chance."
"With your help."
"Your joke is in lousy taste."
"Garry, it is no joke. I am back." He stepped closer. The resemblance
file:///F|/rah/Greg%20Bear/Bear,%20Greg%20-%20Eternity.txt (43 of 355)
[5/21/03 12:34:12 AM]
file:///F|/rah/Greg%20Bear/Bear,%20Greg%20-%20Eternity.txt
38 · GREG BEAR
to Mirsky was uncanny. "I've been waiting up here for you to come, someone who
recognizes me, and can take me to the right people. You have been important in
the Recovery, no?"
"I was," Lanier said. "You could be his brother." His exact twin, actually.
"You should take me up to Thistledown. I must speak with Korzenow-
ski and Olmy. They are still alive, are they not?"
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
