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

over his career, had been both a Giant and a Dodger. Curran considered, inhaled
(he hoped) inaudibly. He took one more shot. "I give you Maglie and Lockman, you
give me the Duke -- and a player to be named later. Market worth 10K."

"No player," said Rabinall. "Straight-up trade."

Curran waited, stalled just to see Rabinall sweat. Because he understood
Rabinall fully now, understood him as well as he did himself. Finally, tight
grin slowly widening, he said, "Deal."

Later, when it had all been done, the exchanges made, the guarantees signed,
Curran had gone for a walk, childishly and foolhardily still clutching the
singleton container of the Duke.

He'd done it, he finally had a team. Brooklyn Dodgers, circa 1952. Complete at
every position. Erskine on the mound; Hodges, Robinson, Reese, and Cox in the
infield; Campy behind the plate; Pafko, Furillo, and now Duke in the outfield.
And he'd bring them to term, too. No computer investing for him, no hoarding the
seeds without tasting the fruit. No sir. He hadn't bought all that equipment for
nothing. The Artificial Womb alone had cost 40K; the Nano-neural Educator, 32K;
the Growth Accelerator, a cool 75K (including re-conditioning).

Once more, he fondled the battery-cooled container, with its cargo of precious
cells. He wondered from where on the Duke's lithe body they had come, whether
they'd been donated or stolen, scraped or shed, sold legally or black-marketed.
No matter, he'd have plenty of time to read the pedigrees, as he'd done so often
before. One of the pleasures of ownership.

Yes, these cells would be cloned, all right. They'd develop, they'd mature, and
the Duke would play again. Glide effortlessly through the green grass in center
field to make a graceful, leaping, time-frozen catch against the fence. Lift a
high drive to right with that sweet, fluid swing -- a ball going, going, gone
for a home run.

Yes, the Duke would return to the game. They all did, and why not? Sure, the
Educator would pre-dispose them to accept the contracts he would offer -- not
that they wouldn't be eminently fair -- but, more cogently (was he a mystic?),
it was in their blood. To be a ballplayer. The best of the best. What else could
they do?

They'd have a great time. He'd take them on tour, his own team, and they'd play
everyone. The tragic 2032 Eagles, whose cells were all scraped from the site of
the sub-orbital crash. The awful 1998 Florida Marlins, losers of 136 games in a
single season. The 2129 Slashers, with the robot third baseman. All of them,
every one.

Some day, thought Curran, they might even meet the 1950's New York Giants. And,
come to think of it, Sal Maglie might conceivably end up pitching for each team.
The thought made him smile. Now that would be a game.