"Peter F. Hamilton - A Second Chance At Eden" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hamilton Peter F)

Jacob marshalled the roadies, and got them to unload Khanivore's life-support pod from the
lorry. His beefy face was sweating heavily as the opaque cylinder was slowly lifted down
along with its ancillary modules. I don't know why he worries so much about a two-metre
drop. He does most of the beastie's body design work (Karran handles the nervous system
and circulatory network) so more than anyone he knows how tough Khanivore's hide is.
The arena had started life as a vast tubing warehouse before Dicko moved in and set up
shop. He kept the corrugated panel shell, stripping out the auto-stack machinery so he could
grow a polyp pit in the centreтАФcircular, fifteen metres in diameter, and four metres deep. It
was completely surrounded by seating tiers, simple concentric circles of wooden plank
benches straddling a spiderwork of rusty scaffolding. The top was twenty metres above the
concrete floor, nearly touching the condensation-slicked roof panels. Looking at the rickety
lash-up made me glad I wasn't a spectator.
Our green room was the warehouse supervisor's old office. The roadies grunted
Khanivore's life support into place on a set of heavy wooden trestles. They creaked but held.
Ivrina and I started taping black polythene over the filthy windows. Wes mated the
ancillary modules with the warehouse's power supply. Karran slipped on her Ishades, and
began running diagnostic checks through Khanivore's nervous system.
Jacob came in smiling broadly. "The odds are nine to two in our favour. I put five grand
on us. Reckon you can handle that, Sonnie?"
"Count on it. The Urban Gorgons have just acquired themselves one dead beastie."
"My girl," Wes said proudly, slapping my shoulder.
He was lying, which cut deep. Wes and I had been an inseparable pair for eight months,
right up until my mishap. Now he and Ivrina were rocking the camper van's suspension every
night. I didn't hold it against him, not consciously anyway. But seeing them walking
everywhere together, arms entwined, necking, laughingтАФthat left me cold.
An hour before I'm on, Dicko shows up. Looking at him, you kind of wondered how
come he wound up in this racket. A dignified old boy, all formal manners and courteous
smile; tall and thin, with bushy silver hair too thick to be entirely natural, and a slightly stiff
walk which forced him to use a silver-topped cane. His garb was strictly last century: light
grey suit with slim lapels, a white shirt with small maroon bow tie.
There was a girl in tow, mid-teens and nicely proportioned, sweet-faced, too; a
fluff-cloud of curly chestnut hair framing a composed demure expression. She wore a simple
square-necked lemon-yellow dress with a long skirt. I felt sorry for her. But it's an ancient
story; I get to see it countless times at each bout. At least it told me all I needed to know
about Dicko and his cultivated mannerisms. Mr Front.
One of the roadies closed the door behind him, cutting off the sounds of conversation
from the main hall, a whistling PA. Dicko gave me and the other girls a shallow bow, then
handed an envelope to Jacob. "Your appearance fee."
The envelope disappeared into Jacob's sleeveless leather jacket.
Delicate silver eyebrows lifted a millimetre. "You are not going to count it?"
"Your reputation is good," Jacob told him. "You're a pro, top notch. That's the word."
 "How very kind. And you, too, come well recommended."
I listened to him and the rest of the team swapping nonsense. I didn't like it, he was
intruding. Some teams like to party pre-bout; some thrash and re-thrash tactics. Me, I like a
bit of peace and quiet to Zen myself up. Friends who'll talk if I want, who know when to keep
quiet. I jittered about, wait-tension making my skin crawl. Every time I glanced at Dicko's
girl her eyes dropped. She was studying me.
"I wonder if I might take a peek at Khanivore?" Dicko asked. "One has heard so much
. . ."
The others swivelled en masse to consult me.