Высокие технологии в современной англоязычной литературе. Часть IV. Методические указания для бакалавров и специалистов 1-2 курсов всех отделений и на

Deaver J. The Burning wire.- L.: Hodder & Stoughton Ltd., 2011.-P.384-387

Despite the horror of Ray Galt's attacks, Charlie Sommers couldn't deny the exhilaration that now, well, electrified him.

He'd taken a coffee break, during which he'd spent the time jotting diagrams for a possible invention (on a napkin, of course): a way to deliver hydrogen gas to homes for fuel cells. He was now returning to the main floor of the New Energy Expo in the Manhattan Convention Center on the West Side, near the Hudson River. It was filled with thousands of the most innovative people in the world, inventors, scientists, professors, the all-important investors too, each devoted to one thing: alternative energy. Creating it, delivering it, storing it, using it. This was the biggest conference of its sort in the world, timed to coincide with Earth Day. It brought together those who knew the importance of energy but knew too the importance of making and using it in very different ways from what we'd been used to.

As Sommers made his way through the halls of the futuristic convention center-finished just a month or so ago-his heart was pounding like that of a schoolboy at his first science fair. He felt dizzy, head swiveling back and forth as he took in the booths: those of companies operating wind farms, nonprofits seeking backers to create microgrids in remote parts of Third World countries, solar power companies, geothermal exploration operations and smaller outfits that made or installed photovoltaic arrays, flywheel and liquid sodium storage systems, batteries, superconductive transport systems, smart grids… the list was endless.

And utterly enthralling.

He arrived at his company's ten-foot-wide booth at the back end of the hall. ALGONQUIN CONSOLIDATED POWER

SPECIAL PROJECTS DIVISION

THE SMARTER ALTERNATIVE TM

51

Although Algonquin was probably bigger than the five largest exhibitors here put together, his company had bought only the smallest booth available for the new-energy show, and he was the only one manning it.

Which was a pretty clear indication of how CEO Andi Jessen felt about renewables.

Still, Sommers didn't care. Sure, he was here as a company representative, but he'd also come here to meet people and make contacts on his own. Someday-soon, he hoped-he'd leave Algonquin and spend all his time on his own company. He was very up front with his supervisors about his private work. Nobody at Algonquin had ever had a problem with what he did on his own time. They wouldn't be interested in the inventions he created at home anyway, things like the Sink-Rynicity water-saving system for kitchens, or the Volt-Collector, a portable box that used the motion of vehicles to create power and store it in a battery you could plug into a fixture in your house or office, thus reducing demand from your local company.

The king of negawatts…

Already incorporated, Sommers Illuminating Innovations, Inc., was his company's name and it consisted of himself, his wife and her brother. The name was a play on Thomas Edison's corporation, Edison Illuminating Company, the first investor-owned utility and the operator of the first grid.

While he may have had a bit-a tiny bit-of Edison's genius, Sommers was no businessman. He was oblivious when it came to money. When he'd come up with the idea of creating regional grids so that smaller producers could sell excess electricity to Algonquin and other large power companies, a friend in the industry had laughed. "And why would Algonquin want to buy electricity when they're in the business of selling it?"

"Well," Sommers replied, blinking in surprise at his friend's naivete, "because it's more efficient. It'll be cheaper to customers and reduce the risk of outages." This was obvious.

The laugh in response suggested that perhaps Sommers was the naive one.

52

Sitting down at the booth, he flicked on light switches and removed the BE BACK SOON sign. He poured more candy into a bowl. (Algonquin had vetoed hiring a model in a low-cut dress to stand in front of the booth and smile, like some of the exhibitors had.)

No, the smiling was up to him and he grinned with a vengeance as he gestured people over and talked about power.

During a lull, he sat back and gazed around him, wondering what Thomas Edison would have thought walking through these halls. Sommers had a feeling that the man would have been fascinated and delighted, but not amazed. After all, electrical generation and the grid hadn't changed significantly for 125 years. The scale was bigger, the efficiency better, but every major system in use nowadays had been around then.

Edison would probably have gazed enviously at the halogen bulbs, knowing how hard it had been to find a filament that worked in his. And laughed to see the displays on micro-nuclear reactors, which could travel on barges to where they were needed (Edison had predicted in the 1800s that we would one day be using nuclear energy to power generators). He would also undoubtedly have been awed by the convention center building itself. The architect had made no attempt to hide the infrastructure; the beams, the walls, the ducts, even portions of the floor were gleaming copper and stainless steel.

It was, Sommers considered, like being inside a huge switchgear array.

The special project manager kept his guard up, though. There's a seamy side to invention. The creation of the lightbulb had been a fierce battle-not only technologically but legally. Dozens of people were involved in knock-down, dragout battles for credit for-and the profit from-the lightbulb. Thomas Edison and England's Joseph Wilson Swan emerged as the victors but from a field littered with lawsuits, anger, espionage and sabotage. And destroyed careers.

Sommers was thinking of this now because he'd seen a man in glasses and a cap not far from the Algonquin booth. He was suspicious because the guy had been lingering at two different booths nearby. One company made equipment for

53

geothermal exploration, devices that would locate hot spots deep in the earth. The other built hybrid motors for small vehicles. But Sommers knew that someone interested in geothermal would likely have no interest in hybrids.

True, the man was paying little attention to Sommers or Algonquin, but he could easily have been taking pictures of some of the inventions and mockups on display at the booth. Spy cameras nowadays were extremely sophisticated.

Sommers turned away to answer a woman's question. When he looked back, the man-spy or businessman or just curious attendee-was gone.

Ten minutes later, another lull in visitors. He decided to use the restroom. He asked the man in the booth next to his to keep an eye on things and then headed down a nearly deserted corridor to the men's room. One advantage of being in the cheaper, small-booth area was that you had the toilets largely to yourself. He stepped into a corridor whose stylish steel floor was embossed with bumps, presumably to simulate the flooring of a space station or rocket.

When he was twenty feet away his cell phone started to ring.

He didn't recognize the number-from a local area code. He thought for a moment then hit the IGNORE button.

Sommers continued toward the toilet, noticing the shiny copper handle on the door and thinking, They sure didn't spare any expense here. No wonder it's costing us so damn much for the booth.

Text 14

Task 34

Read the text and find out what Clive is and whom he is after.

Dekker T. Blink of an eye. –NY: Hachette Book Group, Ink., 2011.-P.188-191

Clive angled the Lincoln Continental into a Diamond Shamrock truck stop on the outskirts of San Bernardino and parked behind a row of purring rigs. A band of

54

teenagers crossed the graveled lot, headed for the store. Gangbangers. Probably headed to some joint to fry their brains. The collective mind of America was headed down the toilet. At some point during the last twenty years, someone decided that intelligence wasn't such a hot commodity after all, and the rest of the country licked up that nonsense as though it were a melting vanilla cone on a hot summer day.

The mind he was after, though—there was an exception if ever one existed. He'd met with Seth four times over the past two years, and each time he walked away knowing that he couldn't give up his pursuit of this one. Seth possessed all the qualities for greatness in the world of intelligence. Brains were one thing, but genius plus a thirst for danger was exceedingly uncommon.

He'd never imagined that his pursuit of Seth would take on a physical nature. Without looking, Clive retrieved the round walnut from his coin tray. Over a period of years, he had rubbed the nutshell smooth by turning it slowly in his hand, as he did now. The mind was like this walnut, he often thought, smooth on the outside and wrinkled on the inside. His task was to figure out what was happening on the inside, where wrinkles made the task more difficult.

His arrangement with the NSA was unusual, but he had come to them with an unusual list of accomplishments that granted him unique negotiating power. He was a throwback to the old days, when trackers sniffed out criminals with keen noses rather than with fastflying fingers on a keyboard. More like a bounty hunter in the Wild West than the agents churned out of today's high-tech schools. Not that he had any dislike for his peers who preferred the road of high science; they were an exceptional lot in their own right. He just preferred the hunt one-on-one, hand- to-hand, mind against mind. May the best man win, and may the loser hang until dead. Figuratively speaking.

Clive depressed the toggle on his radio. "Five into one, you have any new information?" A short hiss and then the voice of Sergeant Lawhead, the clearinghouse for all the uniforms on this one, crackled. "Several blue Sables, but not the right one." Clive picked up a map he'd folded to frame the Los Angeles

55

basin. He'd highlighted in yellow the five primary exits out of the region. Checkpoints stood along each one, far enough out that Seth couldn't have slipped by before they were set up. If the couple had passed through, they weren't driving a blue Sable. He scanned the street to his right. A Ford Taurus drove by, followed by another, blue instead of yellow. Would Seth have traded cars?

Minds like his didn't overlook details; in fact, they tended to consume vast quantities of minutiae. One of those particulars was that in this computer age, the police could track down a car purchase in a matter of minutes. If Seth bought a used car in some remote lot under his own driver's license, he would trip the wire. And Seth hadn't come into this chase with a fake ID. For all Clive could ascertain, he'd stumbled into it without a clue.

Short of buying a car, Seth would have to steal if he wanted to swap vehicles. He'd done it once and he could do it again, and in fact twelve cars had been reported stolen in the last six hours. But none of them was Seth—too far out of the zone. He looked at the map again. Of the five exits out of the city, one headed south to San Diego—out. Seth wouldn't head home for the simple reason that all stupid criminals headed home. He would suspect a ring of cruisers around his house already. Two exits headed north, the Pacific Coast Highway and 1-5—both out. You don't head back into the pursuit unless you know exactly what you're doing, which Seth didn't. He was no seasoned criminal. That left two exits east. One toward Palm Springs and one toward Las Vegas. Both passed through San Bernardino. Clive toggled the radio. "Any word from the Nevada authorities?"

"Checkpoints on all the state crossings, but nothing yet." A pause. "How about south across the border?"

"No. Border's too tight. He's headed east—Arizona or Nevada." The radio remained silent. Clive set the receiver down and studied the map. Where are you, my friend? Hmm? Where have you gone.

56

Task 35

Find the following extracts and translate them into Russian: «The mind he was after… exceedingly uncommon»; « His arrangement… Figuratively speaking.»; «Minds like his… without a clue».

Task 36

Do you share the view expressed in the text? Give your reasons.

Text 15

Task 37

Read the text below and try to divide it into paragraphs.

Rowling J. K. The casual vacancy.-L: Little, Brown Book Group, 2012. – P. 104 – 105

Krystal had a bad feeling about this. Their usual social worker seemed content to let the Weedon family get along without much interference. Vague and haphazard, often getting their names wrong, and confusing their circumstances with those of other clients, she turned up every no apparent aim except to check that Robbie was still alive.

The new menace worsened Krystal‘s mood. When straight, Terri was cowed by her daughter‘s anger and let Krystal boss her around. Making the most of her temporary authority, Krystal ordered Terri to put on some proper clothes, forced Robbie back into clean pants, reminded him he couldn‘t piss in this kind, and marched him off to nursery. He bawled when she made to leave; at first she got ratty with him, but finally she crouched down and promised him that she would come back and pick him up at one, and he let her go.

57

Then Krystal truanted, even though Wednesday was the day she liked best at school, because she had both PE and guidance, and set to work to clean up the house a bit, sloshing pine-scented disinfectant over the kitchen, scraping all the old food and cigarette butts into bin liners. She hid the biscuit tin holding Terri‘s works, and heaved the remaining computers (three had already been collected) into the hall cupboard.

All the time she was chiselling food off the plates, Krystal‘s thoughts kept returning to the rowing team. She would have had training the following night, if Mr Fairbrother had still been alive. He usually gave her a lift both ways in the people –carrier, because she had no other means of getting over to the canal Yarvil. His twin daughters, Niamh and Siobhan, and Sukhvinder Jawanda came in the car too. Krystal had no regular contact with these three girls during school hours, but since becoming a team, they had always said ‗all right?‘ when they passed each other in the corridors. Krystal had expected them to look down their noses at her, but they were OK once you got to know them. They laughed at her jokes. They had adopted some of her favourite phrases. She was, in some sense, the crew‘s leader.

Nobody in Krystal‘s family had ever owned a car. If she concentrated, she could smell the interior of the people-carrier, even over the stink of Terri‘s kitchen.

She loved its warm, plasticky scent. She would never be in that car again. There had been trips on a hired mini-bus too, with Mr Fairbrother driving the whole team, and sometimes they had stayed overnight when they competed against fatflung schools. The team had sung Rihanna‘s ‗Umbrella‘ in the back of the bus: it had become their lucky ritual, their theme tune, with Krystal doing Jay-Z‘s rap, solo, at the start. Mr Fairbrother had nearly pissed himself the first time he heard her do it:

Uh huh uh huh, Rihanna . . .

Good girl gone bad –

Take three –

Action.

No clouds in my storms . . .

58

Let it rain, I hydroplane into fame

Comin’ down with the Dow Jones . . .

Krystal had never understood the words.

Cubby Wall had sent round a letter to them all, saying that the team would not be meeting until they could find a new coach, but they would never find a new coach, so that was a pile of shit: they all knew that.

Task 38

Ask three questions to each of the paragraphs.

Task 39

Retell the text.

Text 16

Task 40

Read the text below and try to find out as much as you can about: Howard;

Shirley;

the Fields;

the Bellchapel Addiction Clinic;

the Ghost of Barry Fairbrother;

Pagford;

Parminder;

Simon Price;

District Council‘s

Maureen

Miles

Yarvil.

59

Rowling J. K. The casual vacancy.-L: Little, Brown Book Group, 2012. – P. 390-391

The article makes it look like our side went after pro-Fielders. Tried to intimidate them,‘ said Howard, succumbing to the temptation to scratch, and doing it fiercely. ‗All right, Aubrey knows it wasn‘t any of our side, but that‘s not how that journalist made it look. And I‘ll tell you this: if Yarvil makes us look inept or dirty . . . they‘ve been looking for a chance to take us over for years‘

‗That won‘t happen,‘ said Shirley at once. ‗That couldn‘t happen.‘

‗I thought it was over,‘ said Howard, ignoring his wife, and thinking of the

Fields. ‗I thoughts we‘d done it. I thought we‘d got rid of them.‘

The article over which he had spent so much time, explaining why the estate and the Bellchapel Addiction Clinic were drains and blots on Pagford, had been completely overshadowed by the scandals of Parminder‘s outburst, and the Ghost of Barry Fairbrother. Howard had completely forgotten now how much pleasure the accusations against Simon Price had given him, and that it had not occurred to him to remove them until Price‘s wife had asked.

‗District Council‘s emailed me,‘ he told Maureen, ‗with a bunch of questions about the website. They want to hear what steps we‘ve taken against defamation. They think the security‘s lax.‘

Shirley, who detected a personal reproof in all of this, said coldly, ‗I‘ve told you, I‘ve taken care of it, Howard.‘

The nephew of friends of Howard and Shirley‘s had come round the previous day, while Howard was at work. The boy was halfway through a degree in computing. His recommendation to Shirley had been that they take down the immensely hackable website, bring in ‗someone who knows what they‘re doing‘ and set up a new one.

Shirley had understood barely one word in ten of the technical jargon that the young man had spewed at her. She knew that ‗hack‘ meant to breach illegally, and

60