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theaters were doing a brisk business. Policemen in sharply creased trousers,
white gloves, sauntered along among the pedestrians. It was a bright,
cloudless day, but the breeze coming up the street from the lake was cool. I
stood on the sidewalk outside one of the strip joints and watched
the videotaped come-on over the closed circuit. The
Princess Laya. Sondra Nieve, the Human Operator. Technology replaces the
traditional barker, but the bodies are more or less the same. The persistence
of your faith in sex and machines is evidence of your capacity to hope.
Francis Bacon, in his masterwork
The New Atlantis, foresaw the utopian world that would arise through the
application of experimental science to social problems. Bacon, however, could
not solve the problems of his own time and was eventually accused of accepting
bribes, fined L40,000, and imprisoned in the Tower of London. He made no
appeal to God, but instead applied himself to the development of the
virtues of patience and acceptance. Eventually he was freed. Soon
after, on a freezing day in late March, we were driving near Highgate when I
suggested to him that cold might delay the process of decay.
He was excited by the idea. On impulse he stopped the carriage, purchased a
hen, wrung its neck, and stuffed it with snow.
He eagerly looked forward to the results of his experiment. Unfortunately, in
haggling with the street vendor he had exposed himself thoroughly to the cold
and was seized by a chill that rapidly led to pneumonia, of which he died on
April 9, 1626.
There s no way to predict these things.
When the videotape started repeating itself I got bored, crossed the street,
and lost myself in the crowd.
CHARLES SHEFFIELD
Charles Sheffield (1935 2002) was born in England and educated at St. John s
College, Cambridge. He was president and fellow of the
American Astronautical Society, a fellow of the American Association for
the Advancement of Science, a past president of the Science
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Fiction Writers of America, a fellow of the British Interplanetary Society, a
distinguished lecturer for the American Institute of Aeronautics and
Astronautics, and a member of the International Astronomical Union. His
forty-one published books include best-sellers of both fact and fiction. He
wrote more than a hundred technical papers on subjects ranging from astronomy
to large-scale computer systems, and served as a reviewer of science texts for
the
New Scientist, The World and I, and the
Washington Post
. His writing awards include the Hugo, the
Nebula, the Japanese Sei-un Award, the John W. Campbell Memorial
Award, and the Isaac Asimov Memorial Award for writing that
contributes significantly to the public knowledge and understanding of
science. He was the creator of the Jupiter line of science fiction for
young adults, and authored or coauthored the first four books of
that series. His 1999 book, Borderlands of Science, explored the
boundaries of current science for the benefit of would-be writers. He was
married to fellow author Nancy Kress, who also appears in this volume.
 Trapalanda embodies several pervasive human myths the quest, the search for
lost lands, and the undeniable human urge to solve any mystery that is placed
before us. Sheffield s novella brings together a group who go out looking for
one thing and find quite another, to the utter detriment of the narrator,
illustrating the old truth that some searches cause more questions than
answers.
TRAPALANDA
by Charles Sheffield
John Kenyon Martindale seldom did things the usual way. Until a first-class
return air ticket and a check for $10,000 arrived at my home in Lausanne I did
not know he existed. The enclosed note said only:  For consulting services of
Klaus Jacobi in
New York, June 6th 7th. It was typed on his letterhead and initialed, JKM.
The check was drawn on the Riggs Bank of
Washington, D.C. The tickets were for Geneva New York on June 5th, with an
open return.
I did not need work. I did not need money. I had no particular interest in New
York, and a transatlantic telephone call to
John Kenyon Martindale revealed only that he was out of town until June 5th.
Why would I bother with him? It is easy to forget what killed the cat.
The limousine that met me at Kennedy Airport drove to a stone mansion on the
East River, with a garden that went right down to the water s edge. An old
woman with the nose, chin, and hairy moles of a storybook witch opened the
door.
She took me upstairs to the fourth floor, while my baggage disappeared under
the house with the limousine. The mansion was amazingly quiet. The elevator
made no noise at all, and when we stepped out of it the deeply
carpeted floors of the corridor were matched by walls thick with oriental
tapestries. I was not used to so much silence. When I was ushered into a long,
shadowed conservatory filled with flowering plants and found myself in the
presence of a man and woman, I wanted to shout. Instead I stared.
Shirley Martindale was a brunette, with black hair, thick eyebrows, and a
flawless, creamy skin. She was no more than five feet three, but full-figured
and strongly built. In normal company she would have been a center of
attention; with John
Kenyon Martindale present, she was ignored.
He was of medium height and slender build, with a wide, smiling mouth. His
hair was thin and wheat-colored, combed straight back from his face. Any other
expression he might have had was invisible. From an inch below his eyes to two
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inches above them, a flat, black shield extended across his whole face. Within
that curved strip of darkness colored shadows moved, little darting points and
glints of light that flared red and green and electric blue. They were
hypnotic, moving in patterns that could be followed but never quite predicted,
and they drew and held the attention. They were so striking that it took me a
few moments to realize that John Kenyon Martindale must be blind.
He did not act like a person without sight. When I came into the room he at
once came forward and confidently shook my hand. His grip was firm, and
surprisingly strong for so slight a man.
 A long trip, he said, when the introductions were complete.  May I offer a
little refreshment? [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]