"L. Timmel Duchamp - Quinn's Deal" - читать интересную книгу автора (Duchamp L Timmel)

was practically a fortress. The insurance companies had seen to that.

Philip Penneman, Ph.D. turned out to be a little blond man, probably in his late twenties, a regular
exemplar of the style his Ivy League generation had made known as ? The Preppy Look,? which they
had managed to take with them, after graduation, into the corporate workplace. His blond hair was worn
in the usual preppy style-tight short ? tuffy? curls adorning the crown, stubble on the sides and back,
with long tuffy-curl sideburns. He sported the usual sorts of preppy jewelry, too-a rhinestone (or
diamond) stud in one nostril, several elaborately worked gold and sapphire earrings dangling from both
lobes, and more than half a dozen stoneless lacy gold filigree bands on his fingers. And-absolutely de
rigueur for the preppy look-he wore the usual array of cosmetics: eye-shadow-an iridescent taupe, in this
case-over not only his eyelids, but in the hollow under his eyes; shiny pink lip gloss; and matching pink
polish on his delicately manicured fingernails.

The man flashed a big white toothy smile. ? So sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Quinn,? he said in an
ugly, scratchy voice. (No future media star here. ) ? We had to run your specs through the computer, to
see what sort of assistance, if any, might be available to you.? He waved his pretty pink nail-tipped hand
ever so languidly at the gray vinyl chair positioned to face the desk. ? Please, do sit down.?

Before I fall down? And what would you do then, little man? Send for a cleaning-bot? Quinn sank
into the chair. The tickle in his throat drove him into a deferred spasm of coughing. He glanced around.
Fancy offices often had water dispensers. If this one did ... But Quinn saw only a lot of gray office
furniture and silver-framed posters, proof, he supposed, of the occupant's chic. One of them featured a
black and white photo of a beach strewn with an ugly clutter of washed-up junk, including a pair of
mirror shades lying in the sand, reflecting back the agonized face of an obviously dead woman. (CINDY
SHERMAN, SEATTLE ART MUSEUM, AUGUST 5-31.) Another, slightly more tasteful though in
Quinn's opinion no less kinky poster showed what might or might not be a real live photo of a dancer
(though if so, and not a computer simulation, he was one limber dude). (JESSUP PERFORMS,
VERVE PRODUCTIONS, JAN 9, 10, 13.) Quinn recognized neither name. Though his gaze kept
straying back to these posters throughout the interview, he figured a water dispenser would be a whole
lot more desirable to have in one's office, and at least as high-status.

Penneman tapped a finger against the screen of his computer monitor. ? Now as it happens,? he said, ?
I've got good news for you, Mr. Quinn.? He glanced at Quinn and frowned. ? Your data are current, I
presume? You are still employed as an evacuation engineer??

? Yeah,? Quinn said cautiously. ? That's right.?

Penneman smiled again and nodded enthusiastically. ? Wonderful. The good news is that we have a
situation in which a patron will pay not only your ER expenses, but for the modification of your genes to
eliminate the diabetes.?

A new wave of nausea gripped Quinn's stomach. A deal. Right. I've heard of those kinds of deals.
Godawful drug trials, where they give you cancer in order to try to cure you. Quinn said, ? Uh,
look. All I want is to arrange to pay off what I owe the hospital in installments. Say fifty bucks a month?
Something like that??

Penneman wagged his right index finger at Quinn. ? I don't think you understand, Mr. Quinn. An insulin
pump, which you'll need if you don't get gene therapy, will cost you $6000. Gene therapy for your
condition will run you $8000-10,000. Medication, on the other hand, which is far from satisfactory, will
run you a minimum of $400 a month. The fact is, diabetes is a serious condition. Your coma must surely