"Christopher Hinz - Paratwa 03 - The Paratwa" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hinz Christopher)

The smuggler rolled his eyes. "Faquod, he does as he pleases."

The muscle boy laughed. Gillian approached the youth while casually scanning the mech-wall, already
fairly certain of what he would find on it. He was not disappointed.

About twenty feet up, squeezed amid the filthy spirals of relay tubes and monstrous conduits, sat a
hunched figure with a thruster rifle. It was a fairly good hiding place, though not good enough to escape
Gillian's detection. Although he had met Impleton only yesterday, their brief encounter had provided
enough raw data to establish a psych profile of the swarthy black marketeer. Gillian had known that bold
deceit would be Impleton's fashion; the presence of an armed backup, out of sight, fit the smuggler's
profile like a glove.

Impleton licked his lips. "These high-tech playthings you desire . . . Faquod, he says that they are not
easy to come by. Faquod says they will not be cheap."

Gillian halted two paces away from the grinning muscle boy and leaned over the four-foot ledge that the
tattooed smuggler sat upon. On the other side of the wall, a vertical drop plunged fifteen feet into a
plodding river of sludge covered by a fine-meshed net. The harsh odor of untreated sewage, far more
potent than it had been in the alley, assailed his nostrils. Gillian suspected that the open sewage channel
was illegal.

"Very expensive," continued Impleton, his fat cheeks squirming as if his mouth were stuffed with
unchewed food.
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"FaquodтАФhe will want at least half the money in advance, I am sure."

"You told us that already," Buff replied calmly.

"You have the money?"

"Not with us, of course." Buff sighed. "You don't think we're that foolish, do you?"

Gillian leaned against the ledge and relaxed his muscles, body poised for action. He was now fairly
certain that Impleton was lying. Faquod's not coming. We've been set up for a knockdown. They're
planning to rob us. Maybe kill us as well. He found himself secretly smiling as he began to consider ways
to extend the duration of the upcoming fight. It was important for him to be able to relish every moment.

The smuggler with the black coat and sawed-off beard carefully withdrew a small thruster from his
pocket. He made no threatening gestures, keeping the weapon aimed at the ground.

Impleton yawned. "My men . . . they're very excitable. I told them they would be paid tonight. I hope
they will not be disappointed."

"Yeah," agreed Buff, with a sharp glance at Gillian, "I certainly hope no one gets pissed."

The fat smuggler stroked his chin. "I think that maybe you have some of the money, anyway. Down