"Jack Dann - Blind Shemmy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dann Jack)

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BLIND SHEMMY
By Jack Dann
After covering the burning and sacking of the Via Roma in Naples, Carl Pfeiffer, a famous newsfax
reporter, could not resist his compulsion to gamble. He telephoned Joan Otur, one of his few
friends, and insisted that she accompany him to Paris. Organ-gambling was legal in France. They
dropped from the sky in a transparent Plasticine egg, and Paris opened up below them, Paris and
the glittering chip of diamond that was the Casino Bellecour. Except for the dymaxion dome of the
Right Bank, Joan would not have been able to distinguish Paris from the suburbs beyond. A city had
grown over the city: The grid of the ever-expanding slung city had its own constellations of light
and his Haussmann's ruler-straight boulevards, the ancient architectural wonders, even the black,
sour stenched Seine, which was an hourglass curve dividing the old city.
Their transpod settled to the ground like a dirty snowflake and split silently open, letting in
the chill night air
with its acrid smells of mudflats and cinders and clogged drains. Joan and Pfeiffer hurried across
the transpad toward the high oaken doors of the casino. All around them stretched the bleak, brick-
and-concrete wastelands of the city's ruined districts, the fetid warrens on the dome's
peripheries, which were inhabited by skinheads and Screamers who existed outside the tightly
controlled structure of Uptown life. Now, as Pfeiffer touched his hand to a palm-plate sensor, the
door opened and admitted them into the casino itself. The precarious outside world was closed out
and left behind.
A young man, who reminded Joan of an upright (if possible) Bedlington terrier, led them through
the courtyard. He spoke with a clipped English accent and had tufts of woolly, bluish-white hair
implanted all over his head, face, and body. Only his hands and genitals were hairless.
"He has to be working off an indenture," Pfeiffer said sharply as he repressed a sexual urge.
"Shush," Joan said, as the boy gave Pfeiffer a brief, contemptuous look-in Parisian culture, you
were paying only for the service, not for the smile.
They were led into a simple, but formal, entry lounge, which was crowded, but not uncomfortable.
The floor was marbled; a few pornographic icons were discreetly situated around the carefully laid-
out comfort niches. The room reminded Joan of a chapel with arcades, figures, and stone courts.
Above was a dome, from which radiated a reddish, suffusing light, lending the room an
expansiveness of height rather than breadth.
But it was mostly holographic illusion.
They were directed to wait a moment and then presented to the purser, an overweight, balding man
who sat behind a small desk. He was dressed in a blue camise shirt
and matching caftan, which was buttoned across his wide chest and closed with a red scarf. He was
obviously, and uncomfortably, dressed in the colors of the establishment.
"And good evening, Monsieur Pfeiffer and Mademoiselle Otur. We are honored to have such an
important guest, or guests, I should say." The purser slipped two cards into a small console.
"Your identification cards will be returned to you when you leave." After a pause he asked, "Ah,
does Monsieur Pfeiffer wish the lady to be credited on his card?" The purser lowered his eyes,
indicating embarrassment. Quite simply, Joan did not have enough credit to be received into the
more sophisticated games.
"Yes, of course," Pfeiffer said absently. He felt guilty and anxious about feeling a thrill of
desire for that grotesque boy.