"Peter F. Hamilton - The White Stuff" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hamilton Peter F)

the grey cans, an oily foam contaminating the grilles, the hubs, the windscreen. It looked like the Nimbus
was getting ready for a shave. He was about to scream at them, but his shout never got past the first
syllable. The white foam was gradually turning translucent, smoothing out to form a thin, uniform coat,
already delivering the gleam.

The redhead caught his eye, giving him a laughing thumbs up. Feeling hopelessly old and dumb (memory
image kicking in: his father holding his first-ever CD up to the light in utter perplexity) he smiled back
weakly and retreated into the pub. Pity there had been no brand name on the spray cans; the company
who owned that process would be worth a dabble. Interesting.

Rewarded by that not-totally-innocent smile of hers, Nigel had promised the redhead to put the word
round the trading floor. In two days all his smart colleagues were driving round in gleaming cars.

The Swan's landlord didn't object. Customers parked their cars and checked in for a drink while the kids
sprang to work with sponges and spray cans. They had a regular production line going out back. Only
once did the financier in him assert itself. How much should a micro-friction coating actually cost? Were
the kids at The Swan pulling a fast one?

Nigel tried to price the coating at his Nimbus dealer's showroom. "What's micro-friction?" was the reply.

***

There were at least a dozen kids in The Swan's parking lot when he pulled in the following Monday. Five
cars had their bonnets up, two kids to a car, doubled up over the radiator grilles, looking like they were
being swallowed whole.

The redhead bounded over. Today she wore hip-hugging navy-blue shorts and a sleeveless white blouse,
top four buttons undone. Boyfriend nowhere to be seen.

"Business is looking good," Nigel commented.

"I give people what they want."

He glanced up. He wondered exactly how old she was.

"Take you. I mean, these wheels of yours: seriously loaded." Her hand stroked the bonnet, coyly. "But
you can't jack up the throttle cos of these speed laws. They ain't tailored to modern cars. They're
antiques, thirties fodder."
"How do I just know you're going to sell me something else?"
Her answering grin was evil, moist tongue tip peeking out from the corner of her mouth. "Cos I like
ringing your bell. I've got a zapper scrambler here that's got your name on it. You game?"

He tried to keep his eyes off the open buttons of her blouse. "Maybe. Speak to me."

"It screws the law's radar guns something chronic. First, a warning bleep from the laser detector at half a
mile, then the LCD counts you down to ground zero. And the big plus: even if they do blast you, their
read-out swears blind you're only doing a poxy twenty eight."

No more fines, no more penalty points. Every motorist's dream gadget. "How much?"