"Terry Dowling - The Lagan Fishers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dowling Terry)

"Best way. Nothing is lost but spindrift through the flumes. You get the hedges; they get the lagan.
There's no poaching and none of the hassles."
"You representing anybody?" Sam asked. He'd always been a wary and even harsh critic where the lagan
was concerned. It had always been someone else's experience, the reality of others, thus easy to comment
on. This had changed him-what was the quaint old fin-de-si├иcle saying?-had made it "up close and personal."

"I had a dozen phone calls before I left the office, but no. Hope you believe it, Sam."
"Ross?"
"Eight calls. Nope."
Sam needed to believe them. They were his friends. They'd been with him when Jeanie died. He needed to
brave it out. "Cat, I want to see it. I've gone revisionist pro tem, okay? If it's alien invasion, let's have it. I want
hedges to form. I want them stretching along the road all the way to town. People should be able to poach
stuff. Break bits off."
Cat answered right on cue. This was an area of major personal concern. "A lot of wildcat lagan owners
agree with you. I've always said it. Keep the cartels out."
"I've got control, right?"
She gave a little frown. "Your property, Sam."
"What about outside options?"
"Some control. It's an official thing. What's on your mind?"
"I want it all hands-on. No remotes. None of those little science doovers. No aerostats."
"That's tricky, Sam," she said. "It's standard nowadays. Every general access unit means a thousand
global onlines and probably a thousand research facilities. A fortune from sponsors to you. Even if you could
close 'em out, you'd just get thousands more people coming in. You don't want that."
"Then only for part of the day. Only in the afternoon. Say, 1300 till sundown. None at night. Can we do
that?"
"We can try," Jimmins said and keyed in the request, waited less than a minute, nodded. "You've got it for
now, flagged for renegotiation later. Bless your MF, Sam. You'll get rogues slipping in, but we'll put up a burn
field. Fry 'em in the sky."
Cat nodded, confirming how easy it was going to be. "They'll stop when they lose a few. So, what will you
do?"
Talking the talk was easy, Sam found. "I'll fish it myself. See what comes up."
"Great idea. Can we help?"

It all happened quickly once the Mayor and Jimmins left. The waiting fishers at the gate drove off the moment
they learned Sam was going to wildcat it himself, all but one, the craggy-looking, grey-haired older man
perched on the bonnet of his truck. When Sam went down to quiz him on why he stayed, he saw that it was
Howard Dombey, the proprietor of the Lifeways produce market on the far side of Tilby. He was a part-time
lagan fisher, and people said he did some lagan brokering as well.
"It's Howard Dombey, isn't it?" Sam said.
"Right on, Mr. Cadrey. Like to help if you're a mind." His idioms were straight from Life Studies Online, all
very PC, optimally relaxing, maximally community building.
Sam found himself matching them. "Doing it myself. And it's Sam."
"Like to help just the same, Sam. Don't figure profit margins too well anymore. Just like working with it.
Seeing it come to."
"Why?"
Howard Dombey shrugged, going with the role beautifully. "Just do. Watching the spin. Seeing it all
flicky-flashy with lagan, pretty as the day. Give me five per cent and I'll do the scut work. Give me ten and I'll
fence the bounty you clear as well. Save you the grief."
"There'll be slow days, Howard."
"Counting on it. At my age, they're the ones I like."