"Dean Ing - Systemic Shock" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ing Dean)

ear, watching an unusual volume of traffic stream near their track that overhung the highway median
strip. As always, most highway traffic was cargo; some old diesels, mostly short-haul electrics. But
today a surprising number of private cars shared the freeway.

Bustling down the aisle, Purvis Little promised himself to confiscate the Quantrill radio, which defied
Little's orders on a pack trip.

Ray Kenney flopped into the seat next to Ted, jabbed an obscene finger in Little's direction. тАЬOld
fart, he muttered; ''took my translator. Said we were only looking for the dirty words."

Quietly, without stirring: "Weren't you?"

"If I'm gonna learn the language, I gotta know 'em all," Ray said, innocence spread across the
pinched features.

Ted smiled at the tacit admission. What Ray lacked in muscle and coordination, he made up by
honing his tongue. If words were muscle, Ray Kenney could outrun the monorail.

Ray leaned toward his friend, pretended to stare at the traffic, and whispered. "Got a fiver?
Wayne's gonna buy some joints in Asheville. If you want in, I can fix it."

Ted considered the idea. A few tokes by the underaged on a weed in a sleeping bag was nothing
new, a token rebellion to relieve chafing under Little's authority. But Wayne Atkinson, their only
Eagle scout, seldom did favors without three hidden reasons for them. Atkinson probably had the
joints already. "I'll pass, Ray. Thanks anyway."

"Scared?" Ray caught the cool glance from Ted Quantrill's mint-green eyes. The scar over Ted's
nose and the sturdy limbs furthered the impression that Ted did not yield easily to fear. He might,
however, yield to a claim of it. "Wayne isn't scared. He's cool, he never gets caught."

"But you do; you're not Little's pride and joy."

"If I had merit badges coming out of my ass like Wayne does," Ray began, and then jerked around.

There was no way to tell how many seconds Little had been standing behind them. Ray braced his
knees against the seat ahead, thrust his hands between his thighs, slumped and stared at nothing.

''I'll take that radio, Quantrill,'' said the scoutmaster after waiting long enough to make Ray Kenney
sweat. He took the radio, slipped it into his shirt pocket, pursed his zealot lips. "Was it reggae jazz,
or polluting your mind with a porn station?"

Not sullen, but weary: "Just a newscast, Mr. Little."

"Oh, no doubt," said Little, suddenly favoring Ray Kenney with a we-know-better smirk. "How will
we ever explain your sudden interest in current events, Quantrill?"

Little turned away expecting no answer. He was halfway to his seat when Ted replied, "No
mystery, Mr. Little. My father's in the Reserve, flies patrol from Key West to Norfolk. And there's
a big tanker gone off the Florida coast.''