"Dean Ing - Single Combat" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ing Dean)

"Regenerated you," Mills shrugged the implied correction. "Don't worry; thanks to us you never looked
better or sounded half so good. Want to see what you really sang?" The Mills hand, small and exquisitely
manicured, held the wireless terminal, thumb poised.

McCarty shook his head quickly, both hands up in dismay. "Now that's an abomination, Mr. Mills. And
what's worse it makes me break a sweat to see a me that isn't me." To stress his rejection, McCarty
turned his back on the holo wall and faced rooftops of Ogden, Utah outside the smoke-tinted glass
panel. The giddy height of the IEE tower yielded a unique view; no other commercial structure in Ogden
was permitted such an imposing skyward reach. McCarty supposed it had something to do with the
microwave translators built into the temple-like spire. Even in architecture, IEE suggested its sympathy
with the reigning Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter-day Saints. Now that a Mormon administration
directed the rebuilding of an America whittled down by ravages of the Sinolnd War, McCarty could
condone such corporate cozening as good conservative business practice. He let his eyes roam past the
city to salt flats shimmering in late spring heat, to the tepid Great Salt Lake beyond, so impossibly blue in
the sun as to seem artificial.

As artificial, for instance, as his rendition of a song he'd never sung, or as his effectiveness as a man of
God, when image-generating modules could replace him right down to the wrinkles in his shirt. Squinting
against a glint of sunlight from the too-blue lake: "I wonder when they'll start fakin' the news," McCarty
said.

"Oh,тАФI suppose someone will try it sooner or later," said Mills, but McCarty did not notice the subtle
twitch that passed for a smile. "You can't imagine how much it cost FBN to regenerate your little ditty." It
was, of course, very cheap. "If it happens again, you'll pay the tab. Try to curb your paranoid fantasies,
Ora; as long as we maintain control of FBN Holovision, we won't often squander big money regenerating
events."

Not once did Mills lie outright; as usual, his lies were chiefly implicit.

Reluctantly, McCarty faced Mills. "I guess the world isn't as simple as I'd like," he sighed, fashioning a
shrug that ingratiated him to audiences; awkward, gangling, suggestive of a reticent mind in the big
rawboned body. "I appreciate your takin' your own time on this, Mr. Mills. A lot of men wouldn't
bother."

"A lot of men don't succeed," Mills replied evenly, with a light touch at McCarty's elbow, steering him to
the door. Boren Mills was one of those compact models that did not seem diminished when standing
among taller men. With a forefinger he indicated the needlepoint legend framed behind his rosewood
desk: SURPRISE IS A DIRTY WORD. "See that your programming people check your scripts from
now on. We can do without any more surprises on the Ora McCarty Devotional Hour."

"That goes without saying," McCarty murmured.

"Nothing goes without saying," Mills replied. "That's the essence of written contracts. Read the prohibited
list, Ora."

Damn the man, thought McCarty, and tried to respond lightly as he stood in the doorway: "You've
made me a believer, Mr. Mills. If I lost network support by stickin' a burr under the LDS's saddle
blanket, I'd wind up so far out in the sticks you couldn't find me with a Search & Rescue team."

"Nicely put," Mills grinned, and terminated the interview. Mills was still chuckling to himself as he