"George R. R. Martin - WC 4 - Aces Abroad" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

engine. She stared out the window, but could see little. It was dark and the
roadside was lit only by infrequent glimpses of the half moon as it occasionally
peered out from behind banks of thick clouds. It looked as if they had stopped
beside a crossroad, a chance meeting of minor roads that ran blindly through the
Haitian forest. Calixte opened the door on his side and climbed out of the limo
smoothly and steadily in spite of the fact that he'd drunk most of a bottle of
raw rum in less than half an hour. The driver got out too, leaned against the
side of the limo, and began to beat a swift tattoo on a small, pointed-end drum
that he'd produced from somewhere.
"What's going on?" Digger demanded.
"Engine trouble," Calixte said succinctly, throwing the empty rum bottle into
the jungle.
"And the driver is calling the Haitian Automobile Club," Wilde, sprawled across
the backseat, said with a giggle. Chrysalis poked Digger and gestured to him to
move out. He obeyed, looking around bewilderedly, and she followed him. She
didn't want to be trapped in the back of the limo during whatever it was that
was going to happen. At least outside the car she had a chance to run for it,
although she probably wouldn't be able to get very far in a floor-length gown
and high heels. Through the jungle. On a dark night. "Say," Digger said in
sudden comprehension. "We're being kidnapped. You can't do this. I'm a
reporter."
Calixte reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small, snub-nosed
revolver. He pointed it negligently at Digger and said, "Shut up."
Downs wisely did.
They didn't have long to wait. From the road that intersected the one they'd
been driving upon came the cadenced sound of marching feet. Chrysalis turned to
stare down the road and saw what looked like a column of fireflies, bobbing up
and down, coming in their direction. It took a moment, but she realized that it
was actually a troop of marching men. They wore long, white robes whose hems
brushed the roadtop. Each carried a long, skinny candle in his left hand and
each was also crowned with a candle set on his forehead by a cloth circlet,
producing the firefly effect. They wore masks. There were about fifteen of them.
Leading the column was an immense man who had a decidedly bovine look about him.


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He was dressed in the cheap, tattered clothes of a Haitian peasant. He was one
of the largest men that Chrysalis had ever seen, and as soon as he spotted her
he headed straight toward her. He stood before her drooling and rubbing his
crotch, which, Chrysalis was surprised and not happy to see, was bulging outward
and stretching the frayed fabric of his jeans.
"Jesus," Digger muttered. "We're in trouble now. He's an ace."
Chrysalis glanced at the reporter. "How do you know?"
"Well, ah, he looks like one, doesn't he?"
He looked like someone who'd been touched by the wild card virus, Chrysalis
thought, but that didn't necessarily make him an ace. Before she could question
Digger further, however, the bull-like man said something in Creole, and Calixte
snapped off a guttural "Non" in answer.