"George R. R. Martin - Override" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

me to do it. The fact that I get bigger swirlstones and my estimates go upтАФwell, that's extra gravy."
Cochran smiled and shook his head. "You're crazy, Matt," he said affectionately. "Only corpse
handler in the universe who'd be happy if they paid him off with scenery."
Kabaraijian smiled too, a slight lifting at the corners of his mouth. "Philistine," he said accusingly.
Cochran ordered another beer. "Look, Matt, you've got to be practical. Sure, Grotto is O.K., but
you're not gonna be here all your life." He set down his beer, and pulled up the sleeve of his tunic, to flash
his heavy wristlet. The gold shone softly in the candlelight, and the sapphires danced with dark blue
flame. "Junk like this was valuable once," Cochran said, "before they learned how to synthesize it. They'll
crack swirlstones, too, Matt. You know they will. They already have people working on it.
So maybe you've got two years left, or three. But what then? Then they won't need corpse handlers
anymore. So you'll move on, no better off than when you first landed."
"Not really," said Kabaraijian. "The station pays pretty good, and my estimates haven't been bad.
I've got some money put away. Besides, maybe I won't move on. I like Grotto. Maybe I'll stay, and join
the colonists, or something."
"Doing what? Farming? Working in an office? Don't give me that crap, Matt. You're a corpse
handler, always will be. And in a couple years Grotto won't need corpses."
Kabaraijian sighed. "So?" he said. "So?"
Cochran leaned forward. "So have you thought about what I told you?"
"Yes," Kabaraijian said. "But I don't like it. I don't think it would work, first of all. Spaceport
security is tight to keep people from smuggling out swirlstones, and you want to do just that. And even if
it would work, I don't want any part of it. I'm sorry, Ed."
"I think it would work," Cochran said stubbornly. "The spaceport people are human. They can be
tempted. Why should the company get all the swirlstones when we do all the work?"
"They've got the concession," Kabaraijian said.
Cochran waved him silent. "Yeah, sure. So what? By what right? We deserve some, for ourselves,
while the damn things are still valuable."
Kabaraijian sighed again, and poured himself another glass of wine. "Look," he said, lifting the glass
to his lips, "I don't quarrel with that. Maybe they should pay us more, or give us an interest in the
swirlstones. But it's not worth the risk. We'll lose our crews if they catch us. And we'll get expelled.
"I don't want that, Ed, and I won't risk it. Grotto is too good to me, and I'm not going to throw it
away. You know, some people would say we're pretty lucky. Most corpse handlers never get to work a
place like Grotto. They wind up on the assembly lines of Skrakky, or in the mines of New Pittsburg. I've
seen those places. No thanks. I'm not going to risk returning to that sort of life."
Cochran threw imploring eyes up to the ceiling, and spread his hands helplessly. "Hopeless," he said,
shaking his head. "Hopeless." Then he returned to his beer. Kabaraijian was smiling.
But his amusement died short minutes later, when Cochran suddenly stiffened and grimaced across
the table. "Damn," he said. "Bartling. What the hell does he want here?"
Kabaraijian turned toward the door, where the newcomer was standing and waiting for his eyes to
adjust to the dim light. He was a big man, with an athletic frame that had gone to pot over the years and
now sported a considerable paunch. He had dark hair streaked with white and a bristling black beard,
and he was wearing a fashionable multicolored tunic.
Four others had entered behind him, and now stood flanking him on either side. They were younger
men than he was, and bigger, with hard faces and impressive builds. The bodyguards made sense. Lowell
Bartling was widely known for his dislike of corpse handlers, and the tavern was full of them.
Bartling crossed his arms, and looked around the room slowly. He was smirking. He started to
speak.
Almost before he got the first word out of his mouth, he was interrupted. One of the men along the
bar emitted a loud, rude noise, and laughed. "Hiya, Bartling," he said. "What are you doing down here?
Thought you didn't associate with us low-lifes?"
Bartling's face tightened, but his smirk was untouched. "Normally I don't, but I wanted the pleasure