"Grossbach-FeelForTheGame" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grossbach Robert)

here it was within his grasp. He'd emerged from his reverie only when the
bidding had hit 40 thousand New Yen and the number of bidders had dropped to
four. Quickly, Curran had upped the stakes, punching in 53 thousand New Yen and
forcing out all but the final two before the Lull.

He knew one of the remaining players vaguely, a paunchy, sour faced man named
Rabinall, whom he'd briefly spoken to at a convention in Nuevo Miami in the
early 2140's. Rabinall had wanted to buy a Whitey Lockman from him, but Curran
had demurred at the last moment, stubbornly refusing to come down a final notch
in price. Speculator, he'd thought. Bottom-liner. In-and-outer, with no feel for
the game. Of course, it was quite irrational. The other bidder, a woman, was a
mystery.

Curran wondered: Had either of them ever played the actual sport, as he had?
Were they holo fanatics, as he was, watching game after game, present and past,
day after night, losing his wife, his kids, his job--until that became his job?
Had they paid a hundred extra New Yen for the old baseball stats to be installed
in their neuroplants, so that they could tell you, as he could, George Shuba's
batting average in 1953, or Tiamo Victor's ERA in 2089?

Probably not . . . and probably better off for it.

The bidding was about to resume. Why the hell did it have to be live and not
over holo? But, of course, that was the idea -- smell your competition sweat.
Feel his/her tension. Taste it in the air.

"I have a bid for 59K," announced the crisp synthetic voice of the auctioneer.

Curran looked at his screen. It was Rabinall. Curran had a decision to make, a
tactic to decide on, and it had to be done quickly. He had an absolute upper
spending limit of 75K. He was a moderately wealthy man, but he'd been investing
heavily in his collection -- all right, not investing, indulging -- but the fact
was he'd reached the very farthest edge of his credit. And so it came down to a
matter of game psychology. Did he go right to the precipice at once,
demonstrating thereby to the remaining bidders a cavalier fearlessness in
spiraling the stakes . . . or did he methodically just top the other offers for
as long as he could, hopefully projecting a kind of implacable persistence and
saving what could be a significant amount of money?

He punched in 75K. And waited.

"Going once at 75K," said the auctioneer. A blue square appeared at the woman's
position on the screen. She'd dropped out.

"Going twice . . ." said the auctioneer.

Curran could barely breathe. He had it, it was his, he'd finally --

Inside Rabinall's red square, a number came up: 80K. A nearly inaudible whimper
escaped Curran's lips. It was over. Finito. He punched in his blue square,