"James Patrick Kelly - Ninety Percent of Everything" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kelly James Patrick)

Wetherall came around the desk. "I'm a great believer in team chemistry, Liz.
I need to know whether we can all work together."
"I'm afraid that's out of the question. I have duties, not just to the
university and the department, but to my students. I'll have to reschedule my
appointments, make arrangements for..."
He patted my shoulder. "That's what avatars are for."
"I don't have an avatar."
"It'll all be taken care of." He ducked past my chair and opened the
door of the van; we were parked on a runway. There was a jet with a picture of
Judy Jolly Freeze on its tail fin about twenty meters away.
"Wait, I'm not packed -- I don't even have a toothbrush."
"Money," he said, "means never having to pack." He produced a cash card
from his shirt pocket and offered it to me. "When you get there, you can buy
whatever you need." He flicked his thumb against the card's edge. "Buy three
of whatever you need."
"But where are we going?"
He slipped his arm around me and aimed me at the jet. "Las Vegas," he
said.
****
As we approached The Zones Resort & Casino, I could see Nguyen O'Hara's Laputa
hovering some thirty meters over the parking garage. On the roof deck directly
beneath it was the truck which served as its ground station. The sides of this
vehicle were enormous pix; they cycled through a montage of people of various
ages and races and social classes, all pointing up in wonder at the marvelous
floating house. Satisfied customers, apparently.
We'd been met at McCarran Airport by yet another Jolly Freeze van. I
was caught off guard when Wetherall ushered me to the cab and then climbed
beside me and slid behind the wheel. He had scooted the ungainly van through
the traffic on the strip like a teamster late for bowling league. Now he
maneuvered it effortlessly up the garage's tightly spiraling ramp. We parked
near the truck. I craned my neck; Laputa's shadow grew as it descended slowly
toward us. I was so busy goggling that I didn't notice the dapper man until
his smiling face appeared at the driver's side window. He knocked and then
waved.
"Come in, come in!" Wetherall opened the door and slid across the bench
seat toward me. "Liz Cobble, meet Nguyen O'Hara."
He climbed in behind the wheel and shut the door. "My dear Wetherall,
you must either turn down the air-conditioning or pass out blankets. Good to
have you aboard, Liz." He extended a hand; Wetherall flattened himself against
the seat so we could shake. "I'm glad there's finally one sane person on this
project."
"Only one?" I said.
"Well, I'm hardly qualified to make representations about my own mental
health." He spoke with a slight German accent and tended to murmur.
Nguyen O'Hara had a dark angular face; his neat mustache had flecks of
gray in it. There were epicanthal folds at the corners of his dark eyes. While
the cut of his suit was conservative, it was the color of butter -- his
trademark, apparently. He smiled in an entirely different way from Wetherall.
Wetherall's smile was bluff and straightforward. Nguyen's grin was sly and
insinuating, as if inviting you in on a joke. I found him instantly