"Harry Harrison - Bill 2 - On The Planet Of Robot Slaves" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

hand to hand disquietingly. Cy stuffed it cruelly between his lips. Ate it.
"Good." Gone. Cy was alone. The toothputer accessed the RAMchip. Light and
sound rode the starving night. He jumped aside, the vengeful robocab missed.
Was swallowed by the strobeshot darkness. No pedestrian was safe in the
Spunkk. In the dark alley Cy sought safety behind the overfilled garbage can
that compressed under the fatigue of days, discard printout and workweary
compchips, derelict discards of onrushing technology, obscenely melding.
Cy ran the RAMchip again. This was it. Longhidden fotmula dug screaming
from secure RAMbanks. His. She lay prone on the fukfome bed when he
entered. Locked and sealed the door behind him. Stared at her corpsewhite
flesh. "You should get out in the sun more." No response. Polkadot
paint circled her eyes. Blackleather bra and panties, richly adomed with nylon
lace, revealed more than concealed her figure. Not good. Too flatchested. No
ass. "Is this room secure?" "I unplugged the phone." "Here." He
spat the RAMchip into his palm. "I don't want your lousy secondhand
peanut." Anger flamed an unseen torch behind his eyes. "Dummy. It's the
formula." The computer switched on when he kicked it. An ancient IBM PC,
gutted and restuffed with macro Z-80's. Now it had more compergs than a Cray.
The RAMchip plugged into the specially pea54nut-shaped orifice. The screen
burst to repulsive life, indecipherable symbols hurtled across it. "That's
it." "It's indecipherable." "Not if you have been trained. That is a
three, that a seven." She eyebulged at his arcane knowledge. Turned away,
rejected. Popped a pentagon-shaped pill. A Tibetan copy of an illegal
Icelandic aspirin. It hit as obscene symbols raced across the screen. The
laser printer hummed grotesquely as it regurgitated a printout. "Here."
"I can't." "You will. Get everything on the list." He laughed insanely at
the smell of aspirin on her breath. "Drugs. Illegal. Banned." Her fingers
trembled with vibratory despair as she read. "Alcohol, distilled water,
glycerin..." "Go. Or you're dead." The muzzle of the .50 caliber machine
gun poked its obscene muzzle from his coatcuff. She went. Cy BerPunk was
twenty-one when he marketed the formula. Long lost, forgotten, moldering in
the rateaten files of the Amsterdam News. Now reborn, remarketed, aimed
unerringly at the crapkicker market. The newest. The coolest. Pubic Hair
Straightener to go with the latest allnude craze. Once seen, must be had. And
Cy controlled the supply. The bukniks piled up and he watched the zeroes
multiply. Until one day... "Enough!" he exulted unpleasantly. Now they
would let him in. Had to. Their55bankaccount reader checked his balance even
as he approached the front entrance of Power House. Many times had he beat
feeble knuckles against the chromesteel entrance concealed behind the hologram
of a chromesteel entrance. If they read his balance right-he was in. If not-he
risked breaking his nose. No danger was too great. His pace never changed.
He stepped through into the lobby. The receptionist wore a holomask that
concealed her face. A pig's head stared back at him. A gold ring in her nose,
lips redlipsticked. "Yes," she grunted. "AppleCore needs me." Her
smile was cold as liquid helium. "AppleCore needs your money. Voodooman
training is not cheap." "I can pay." "See Chandu. Room one thousand
and nine. Last lift on left." The door closed and the floor smashed up
against his feet. Then against his face as the acceleration flattened him. A
thousand stories is a long way to go. When the door slid open sinuously he
crawled out. Climbed wearily to his feet. Sucked on a octagonularjellybean