"Cory Doctorow - I robot" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dodd Christina)

worker; press four for your psycho-health specialist; press five for your son; press six for your father тАФ"
Tone. "You have selected to have your excuse delivered by your father. Press one if this excuse is
intended for your case-worker; press two for your psycho-health specialist; press three for your principal
тАФ" Tone. "Please dictate your excuse at the sound of the beep. When you have finished, press the pound
key."

"This is Detective Arturo Icaza de Arana-Goldberg. My daughter was sick in the night and I've let her
sleep in. She'll be in for lunchtime." Tone.

"Press one to hear your message; press two to have your message dispatched to a network-member."
Tone.

"Thank you."

The pen-trace data scrolled up Arturo's phone тАФ number called, originating number, call-time. This was
the third time he'd caught his daughter at this game, and each time, the pen-trace data had been useless, a
dead-end lead that terminated with a phone-forwarding service tapped into one of the dodgy offshore
switches that the blessed blasted UNATS brass had recently acquired on the cheap to handle the surge of
mobile telephone calls. Why couldn't they just stick to UNATS Robotics equipment, like the good old
days? Those Oceanic switches had more back-doors than a speakeasy, trade agreements be damned.
They were attractive nuisances, invitations to criminal activity.

Arturo fumed and drummed his fingers on the steering-wheel. Each time he'd caught Ada at this, she'd
used the extra time to crawl back into bed for a leisurely morning, but who knew if today was the day
she took her liberty and went downtown with it, to some parental nightmare of a drug-den? Some place
where the old pervert chickenhawks hung out, the kind of men he arrested in burlesque house raids, men
who masturbated into their hats under their tables and then put them back onto their shining pates,
dripping cold, diseased serum onto their scalps. He clenched his hands on the steering wheel and cursed.

In an ideal world, he'd simply follow her. He was good at tailing, and his unmarked car with its tinted
windows was a UNATS Robotics standard compact #2, indistinguishable from the tens of thousands of
others just like it on the streets of Toronto. Ada would never know that the curb-crawler tailing her was
her sucker of a father, making sure that she turned up to get her brains sharpened instead of turning into
some stunadz doper with her underage butt hanging out of a little skirt on Jarvis Street.

In the real world, Arturo had thirty minutes to make a forty minute downtown and crosstown commute if
he was going to get to the station house on-time for the quarterly all-hands Social Harmony briefing.
Which meant that he needed to be in two places at once, which meant that he had to use тАФ the robot.

Swallowing bile, he speed-dialed a number on his phone.

"This is R Peed Robbert, McNicoll and Don Mills bus-shelter."



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"That's nice. This is Detective Icaza de Arana-Goldberg, three blocks east of you on Picola. Proceed to