"Linda Evans - Time Scout 2 - Wages of Sin" - читать интересную книгу автора (Evans Linda)

CHAPTER ONE
Skeeter Jackson was a scoundrel.
A dyed-in-the-wool, thieving scoundrel.
He knew it, of course; knew it as well as anyone else in La-La Land (at
least, anyone who'd been on Shangri-La Station longer than a week). Not only
did he know it, he was proud of it, the way other men were proud of their
batting averages, their cholesterol counts, their stock portfolios.
Skeeter was very careful to rub shoulders with men of the latter type, who
not only boasted of large 'folios, but carried enormous amounts of cash in
money belts declared through ATF at Primary (so they wouldn't be charged taxes
for any money they'd brought with them). Skeeter rarely failed to get hold of
at least some of that money, if not the whole money belt. Ah, the crisp, cool
feel of cash in hand ...
But he wasn't just a thief. Oh, no. Skeeter was a master con artist as
well, and those skills (ruthless cunning, serpentine guile, the ability to
radiate innocent enthusiasm) were among the best.
So-in honor of Yesukai the Valiant and for the very practical reason of
survival-he worked hard at being the very best scoundrel he could make
himself. Once he'd arrived (freshly scrubbed to get the New York filth off his
hide and out of his soul), it hadn't taken Skeeter long to create a life
uniquely his own on a time terminal unique among time terminals.
There was only one La-La Land. He loved it fiercely.
On this particular fine morning, Skeeter rose, stretched, and grinned. The
game's afoot, Watson! (He'd heard that in a movie someplace and liked the
sound of it.) The glow coming in beneath his door told him Residence lights
were on, not in their dimmed "night" mode. That was really the only way to
tell, unless you had an alarm clock with a Pm indicator light; Skeeter's had
burned out long ago, the last time he'd heaved it at the wall for rudely
awakening him with yet another hangover to regret.
Showered and shaved with minimal time wasted, he dressed for the day-and
the next two glorious weeks. After some of the things he'd worn, the costume
he now donned felt almost natural. Whistling absently to himself, Skeeter-
working hard as ever on his chosen vocation-contemplated his brilliant new
scheme. And the one gaping hole in it.
Surprisingly, the station's excellent library hadn't been much help. To
minimize information leakage, Skeeter had searched the computers, gleaning
bits of valuable information here and there (and managing to tot up more than
a week's worth of earnings against the computer-access account belonging to a
scout currently out in the field). That little scam was actually worth the
otherwise wasted effort, as the scout had once maligned Skeeter in public-
wrongly, as it happened; Skeeter hadn't even been involved. Skeeter, therefore
felt free to indulge his natural urge to cause the scout the greatest amount
of distress possible in the shortest amount of time, all without leaving
behind any proof the s.o.b. could use to prosecute.
Irritatingly elusive, the one piece of the puzzle Skeeter needed most just
wasn't in any pilfered file.
The only place to find what he needed was inside someone's head. Brian
Hendrickson, the librarian, would know, of course-he knew, just as sharply as
though he'd learned it mere moments previously, everything he'd ever seen,
read, or heard (and probably more-lots more), but Brian's dislike of Skeeter