"Kelly,_James_Patrick_-_Ninety_Percent_of_Everything" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kelly James Patrick)

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Ninety Percent of Everything
by Jonathan Lethem, James Patrick Kelly and John Kessel
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Copyright (c)1999 by Jonathan Lethem, James Patrick Kelly and John Kessel
First published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, September 1999

Fictionwise Contemporary
Science Fiction
Nebula Award(R) Nominee

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The pix on my desk said, "There's an avatar on the line for you, Liz. Ramsdel Wetherall, looking for an appointment."
Understand that I was as amazed by this as if it had said "Bela Lugosi" or "William the Conqueror." The idea that Ramsdel Wetherall would want to talk to me was that far-fetched. But my pix couldn't be wrong.
"Put him off. I'll take the meeting in eight ... no, ten minutes." I needed time to see what I could learn about the reclusive mogul's latest hijinks.
Then I'd decide if I wanted to let him hijink me.
_ProfitWeek_ called Wetherall's acquisition of seventy percent of the island nation of Grenada the machinations of an eccentric genius.
On Mother's Day, a panel of experts on _NewsMelt_ debated Wetherall's new infodump about management by avatar. They gave it a mixed review.
A transcript from _America, America_ hypothesized that the sixth richest man in the world had gone into hiding because he'd come down with an exotic disease, contracted from one or more of his myriad sexual partners.
No, said _Channel Lore_, the shitdogs had taken over his mind by infiltrating his avatars.
_Hemisphere Confidential Report_ had pix of Wetherall indulging his hobby in the smart lasso competition at the sixteenth annual Wyoming Tech Rodeo. He placed second.
And just last week _Eye_ had interviewed several astonishingly attractive women in whom Wetherall avatars had expressed a romantic interest. His attorneys had asked them to sign pre-introduction agreements, which prohibited disclosure of any personal encounter with Wetherall, should they ever have one. None of them had. Or so they said.
The search had turned up about what I'd expected: too much speculation and not enough facts. And my appointment was in two minutes.
Although I'd never actually interacted with any of Wetherall's avatars, I'd seen them before. They gazed serenely from pixes across his financial empire. From time to time they gave interviews that were lighter than air. Personally, I found avatars slick and flat as trademarks; whenever I met with one I felt as if I were chatting up Betty Crocker or Bill Gates. But still, _Ramsdel Wetherall_. I took the call.
The avatar that filled the screen was roundish and unthreatening. It had short blond hair, slightly tanned smooth skin, and a not very distinct chin. It might have been the face of a man in his twenties -- or a fifty-year-old who had never sweated a mortgage payment. "Professor Cobble?"
"Call me Liz," I said.
"I'm Ramsdel Wetherall." It smiled as if it'd been waiting all its life to meet me.
I wanted to say _No, you're not_!
* * * *
It was what I liked least about avatars: they acted as if they were the people they represented. Ninety-five percent of the time they operated on their own: buying and selling, lying and telling secrets, flattering and insulting. A busy billionaire like Wetherall could seem to be in two, three, or eleven places at once. The catch was that from time to time the original checked in from afar, and acted and spoke through his digital agent. The real Wetherall might be looking at me through those vapid eyes.
Possible but not probable.
* * * *
"How can I help you?" I said.
There were several seconds of silence. The avatar's smile got bigger and goofier, as if the sheer joy of seeing me had struck it dumb.
"Was there something?" I said.
"Would you mind stepping to the window?" it said. Mystified, I got up and surveyed the campus. A dozen students sunbathed on the quad. Two girls and a dog were playing catch with a frisbee. A college cop was reading a pix in the shade of the whale statue.
"Do you see the white Jolly Freeze van parked in front of Gould Hall?" said the avatar.
I looked. "Yes." It had no customers, it wasn't lit for business, and it was parked in a handicapped spot. There weren't supposed to be ice cream trucks on campus anyway.
"Can I interest you in a short ride?"
"Does it come with chocolate sprinkles?"
The avatar laughed uproariously. This worried me -- it wasn't that funny a joke.
"Turn that smile down, would you?" I said. "It's getting warm in here. So what's this all about?"
The avatar sobered instantly. "Do you believe the shitdogs are intelligent?"
I considered. "If you're asking if they're as smart as human beings, I'd have to say no. Their intelligence is very limited -- in a range somewhere between a flounder and a football player."
"What about their vocalizations?"