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

He was livid. тАЬJust gimme a line of the fruckers and a spewgun."

Only there may not have been enough perpetrators to form a line. Any Netgeek hacker anywhere on the
planet could unleash a morphomercial. Or an erotoroutine. Or a cyberspook like Sick Nick.

тАЬTonight, Sesh. Go up there tonight, yeah?"

Sesha nodded. This was for Frances, a personal task, and she wasn't about to let down her boss, aches
and pains and hairdepression or no.

She asked to view the file Ajit had sent.

Paul Rayle was thirty-eight and, judging from the pic, a good deal cuter than that thick-necked geologist,
partly on account of a degree of natural Congruence: his hair was a mess but it suited him perfectly. And
his neck was of a Jankoesque slenderness. There were no pics of partner or kid. In fact the inf was
pitifully meagre: just the one old unenhanced snapshotтАФsupplied by Frances herself?тАФplus the
Sheepshitshire address, and something about them scraping a living making and selling wooden furniture.

Sesha studied the photo again. A good, high Symmetrindex. She zoomed in on the mouth, a nice, wide,
kind example with generous lippage. Before she knew it, she had asked her mobe for a screening. Her
mobe declared that the photo manifested none of the five Korsch-Wrightson indicators of potential
personality dysfunction. On the basis of the visual data supplied, Paul Rayle appeared sound.

Immediately, Sesha felt guilty for having the temerity to KW Frances's ex as though he were a lovelead,
and tried to appease her superego with a force-of-habit plea. She didn't anticipate any real difficulties,
judging from those lips. In fact she looked forward to making his acquaintance. After all, any ex-hub of
Frances Rayle had to be someone pretty special, did reason not dictate?

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Chapter 3

Gazing atBoxRuth , at her chunky naked back, its whiteness warmed up by the candlelight; at the red
tomboy crop that petered out into down at her nape; at her soft rounded shoulders, the left tattooed with
an intricate Celtic design, done long before he'd met her; at where the side of a heavy breast could be
glimpsed, with Kali's little fat face nuzzling into it as she took her feed; just standing there looking at the
mother of his child, Paulie Rayle felt deeply comforted. Ruth's realitude, her glorious Rembrandt carnality,
served as his anchor in this omniverse bereft of absolutes.

All those others, all theBoxRuth s he had encountered thus far were equally Ruthesque, the whole
ascending chain of them. No diminution, no noticeable increment; just Ruth, again and again, at every
level. The thread that held his dreams together.

тАЬWell go on, then, if you're going.тАЭBoxRuth was irritated; it dulled her eyes and soured her voice.

Paulie hated it when things were less than fine between the two of them. While fromBoxRuth 's point of
view he would be gone for no more than twelve hoursтАФthe maximum period recommended by the
manufacturerтАФsubjectively, he would be away much longer. Chronocompression was advancing