Ладошки, у меня РАНЧИК РОДИЛСЯ! :-)
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Уважаемые давние поклонники и посетители Ладошек!
Я запускаю коммьюнити-сайт, новый проект, а вы все, будучи
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Ранчик родился!
Андрей AKA Andrew Nugged
Ладошки служат как архив программ для Palm OS и Poclet PC / Windows Mobile
и разрешённых книг с 15 окрября 2000 года.
Clifford D. Simak''''s «Way Station» was first published under the title «Here Gather the Stars» in Galaxy Magazine in two parts in June and August of 1963. This is an excellent novel which won the Hugo Award in 1964. It has also been remembered by fans by finishing 27th on the Astounding/Analog All-Time Poll in 1966; tied for 25th on the Locus All-Time Poll in 1987, and finished 31st in 1990 on the Locus All-Time Poll for SF Novels published before 1990.
The main character of the story is Enoch Wallace, a veteran of the American Civil War who is 124 years old, and yet only appears to younger than 30. The story is told in a non-linear style, and Simak artfully moves between present and past events, learning about how Enoch became a Way Station for an inter-galactic transportation system, why he has kept it secret, what has happened during his time as the keeper of the station, and why the CIA has finally become aware of his existence.
Simak covers a lot of ground in this story. The political climate on Earth as well as that of the Inter-Galactic Council, the investigation of the CIA, an encounter with his nearest neighbors, Enoch''''s loneliness and alienation from the modern world, and the theft of an alien talisman all play an important role in this story. Despite these complexities in the plot, it is amazingly easy to follow and is put together wonderfully by Simak.
отрывок из произведения:
...The noise was ended now. The smoke drifted like thin, gray wisps of fog above the tortured earth and the shattered fences and the peach trees that had been whittled into toothpicks by the cannon fire. For a moment silence, if not peace, fell upon those few square miles of ground where just a while before men had screamed and torn at one another in the frenzy of old hate and had contended in an ancient striving and then had fallen apart, exhausted.
For endless time, it seemed, there had been belching thunder rolling from horizon to horizon and the gouted earth that had spouted in the sky and the screams of horses and the hoarse bellowing of men; the whistling of metal and the thud when the whistle ended; the flash of searing fire and the brightness of the steel; the bravery of the colors snapping in the battle wind.
Then it all had ended and there was a silence.
But silence was an alien note that held no right upon this field or day, and it was broken by the whimper and the pain, the cry for water, and the prayer for deaththe crying and the calling and the whimpering that would go on for hours beneath the summer sun. Later the hupled shapes would grow quiet and still and there would be an odor that would sicken all who passed, and the graves would be shallow graves.
There was wheat that never would be harvested, trees that would not bloom when spring came round again, and on the slope of land that ran up to the ridge the words unspoken and the deeds undone and the sopen bundles that cried aloud the emptiness and the waste of death.
There were proud names that were the prouder now, but now no more than names to echo down the ages – the Iron Brigade, the 5th New Hampshire, the 1st Minnesota, the 2nd Massachusetts, the 16th Maine.
And there was Enoch Wallace.
He still held the shattered musket and there were blisters on his hands. His face was smudged with powder. His shoes were caked with dust and blood.