"Richard Laymon - Dreambox Junkies" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laymon Richard)

thought desperately. A mud hut. A warm sun. A grass skirt.

тАЬSoon be home,тАЭ sang her car, its dodgy seat sensors for once reading Sesha's stress level with
accuracy.

тАЬSoon be home,тАЭ echoed her mobe.

тАЬSoon,тАЭ Sesha agreed.

тАЬSesha?тАЭ Her mobeтАФa cool little sixth-gen Hitachi in the style of a 1950s shocking-pink powder
compactтАФknew all about tone of voice, how best to go about troubling her for decisions. Its vocal
pattern was that of rock god Janko Brauch, her all-time crush; although the mobe concerned itself with
banalities any self-obsessed superstar like Janko would never have given a flying fruck about."Sesha,
your WARMGLOW debit expires this month ... you wish to continue?"

тАЬYes please,тАЭ she said.

Every month Sesha donated a fraction of her salary to WARMGLOW, that convenient,
conscience-salving blanket answer to all your charitable impulses. WARMGLOW took the hassle out of
doing good. No need to notice street beggars; you'd already done your bit by giving to WARMGLOW.
You were told where your money went, although Sesha never got round to perusing the bi-monthly
newsbursts. It was the same story with the weekly bulletins from her bookjuicer, tirelessly combing text
libraries, extracting kernels of wisdom, key insights. When had she last found the mindtime for an update?
But then, didn't that go for everyone?

тАЬOh, and Sesh ... shall I renew your McCops contract?"

She had taken out the extra protection a year ago, after her mobe had alerted her to a local newsbite:
her next-door neighbour had been attacked in the underground car park, and said she probably owed
her life to their building's McCop. Sesha knew the тАШneighbourтАЩ scam to be a common advertactic, but
better a safe stupe than a sorry cynic. So she'd gone out and bought a Heartmonitor Alarm Bra (in Funky
Fuchsia) and one of those Pepperspray bodyguard bracelets. But she'd decided against image-grabbing
contact lenses, being more concerned with preventing rape than recording it.

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Chapter 2

Sitting shoeless and dry-haired and Congruent at last again in the kitchen of her micrapartment in newly
fashionable Cricklewood, chilling out with a Janko Brauch album, refuelling with some transorganic pasta
and transorganic pesto and trying to remember who had christened this the Age of Solitary Pleasures,
Sesha listened to a report from one of her subselves; she kept a dozen out there trawling the Net for
loveleads. Four more hits. Two in the States, one in Germany, one right down in New Zealand, all in
search of the perfect partner. A banker, a geologist, an epigeneticist and a ThaIrish Fusion restaurateur.
The geologist, from Maine, was an eighty-three percenter, the most promising compat coefficient in
weeks, and Sesha immediately asked for a pic.

Cute, somewhat cute. But too thick-necked for her taste; she didn't even bother to check his
Korsch-Wrightson mental stability score. To her lovelead criteria pool she appended Neck Girth. As