"Foster, Alan Dean - Flinx - Bloodhype" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

Another section of the gigantic warehouse was filled with a massive
shipment headed of?planet. Idly, he wondered whoТd pulled off that job.

Old Chatham's success had been due in large part to his policy of hiring
free?lance cargo vessels or those of small companies to transport his
goods, rather than acquiring his own fleet. It was a risky way to do
business, circa be was entirely dependent on the will of men who were not
beholden to anyone. Cargos could disappear with sobering swiftness an short
or nonexistent notice. And a merchant or trader who operated in such
fashion built nothing in the way of transportation equity.

At the same time, the system offered unequaled flexibility without fear of
loss in manpower or chips. Some few men could make a success of the
arrangement, while those with a huge investment in ships and men might go
broke in spectacularly short periods of time. Chatham was one who'd spent a
lifetime mastering the first system.

The huge outgoing shipment sat there, its noble immobility staring back at
him. Maybe Scottsdale had landed the job. Or crazy Alapka N'jema. He'd
heard tumors that AI's ship, the Simba, had been operating this far out.
Although the last he'd seen of her she'd beau headed Centerward. There was
always the possibility that the merchant or merchants involved hadn't
contracted with anyone yet.

And the possibility that they had their own ship, idiot.

Still, it was an appealing thought. If the cargo were available and he
could sign it, maybe they'd give film an advance on estimated profit. That,
coupled with what he would make off the Largess expedition, eight to
provide enough to refinish the entire screen. Plus getting an ultrawave
booster for Hen, the Umbra's comm operator. Ben would give his left arm and
part of his soul for even a pre?war booster. For a new one from, say, GC,
his shouts of pleasure would be heard all the way to Alpha C.

The silver plastic of an especially bright casing caught his eye. He saw
himself reflected in the moulding and smiled, running the revised balance
for the ship over again ' in his mind.

Reflected in the plastic, Mal Hammurabi was a big man. Not particularly
tall, he was structured much like a number twelve symbo?speech printed
dictionary?unabridged. Or a collection of children's blocks, tossed
together in a haphazard rectangular shape and dipped in half?wet glue.
Sandy?brown hair was cut square in back and receded slightly from the high
forehead, which overshadowed deep?set amber eyes. The remainder of that
face was an insane collection of rough angles, juts and points. The only
honest curve in the whole assemblage was the thick walrus mustache which
drooped from beneath the nose. Combined with a rather remarkable build, the
ship?master looked like a surreal cross between a land?tank and a basset
bound.