"Peter F. Hamilton - Softlight Sins" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hamilton Peter F)

got hold of that title. It resembled a dental surgery, with a bulky
hydraulic chair in the middle of the floor, a glass-topped desk, several
cabinets of electronic equipment, and two voice-activated computer
terminals. The Softlight imprinter was a triple-segment metal arm standing
next to the chair; it ended in a bulbous plastic strip moulded to fit over
the eyes like an optician's mask.
Judge Theresa Hayward was sitting behind the desk when Douglas walked in.
She was sixty years old, her oval sun-browned face heavily wrinkled,
exacerbated by her frown. During the trial Douglas had found her to have
an astute mind, in court she was scrupulously impartial, and very aware of
the political undertones of the case.
Harvey Boden, the Court Prosecution Officer, was studying a plasma screen
on one of the computer terminals. He greeted Douglas with a thin nod.
The third person in the laboratory was Dr Michael Elliot. He shared
Barbara Johnson's air of sheepish eagerness, desperately trying to
camouflage his feelings below a crust of professional detachment.
Adrian walked straight over to the chair, not looking round. The orderlies
who were escorting him slipped the restraint straps around his wrists and
legs.
The knot of tension in Douglas's stomach twisted sharply when Dr Elliot
swung the Softlight imprinter up, manoeuvring the black mask over Adrian's
eyes.
"Will I see anything?" Adrian asked suddenly.
"The laser operates predominantly in the green section of the spectrum,"
Dr Elliot explained. "It will be quite bright, but not painfully so."
"No lasting damage, eh?" there was a quaver in Adrian's voice.
Dr Elliot managed a sickly smile.
Barbara Johnson was voicelining one of the terminals, reeling off a string
of security codes to access the data core which stored the Softlight
sequence. Dr Elliot joined her, and added his authorisation code, then he
glanced at Judge Hayward. Her face showed nothing but regret. She jerked
her head down.
Douglas closed his eyes, secretly terrified that a flash of green light
would spill out from around the black strip, boring its way down his own
optical nerves, exploding in his brain. Somewhere in the distance he heard
Dr Elliot voiceline: "Expedite."

The imprinter arm retracted automatically. Adrian's face wore the look of
docile imbecility, eyes unfocused, every muscle relaxed.
Barbara Johnson walked forward carrying a white plastic sensor crown which
she settled around Adrian's head. "No brainwave activity above the
autonomic level," she reported, oh-so careful not to display any
satisfaction.
Douglas watched a bead of saliva leak from the corner of Adrian's mouth,
and turned away.


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