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

money steadily for the last five years, but no one knows that except me and my
accountant. I keep it open because it is, after all, the Funhouse, and were it
to close, Jokertown would seem a poorer place.
Next month I will be seventy years of age.
My doctor tells me that I will not live to be seventy-one. The cancer had
already metastasized before it was diagnosed. Even jokers cling stubbornly to
life, and I have been doing the chemotherapy and the radiation treatments for
half a year now, but the cancer shows no sign of remission.
My doctor tells me the trip I am about to embark on will probably take months
off my life. I have my prescriptions and will dutifully continue to take the
pills, but when one is globe-hopping, radiation therapy must be forgone. I have
accepted this.
Mary and I often talked of a trip around the world, in those days before the
wild card when we were young and in love. I could never have dreamt that I would
finally take that trip without her, in the twilight of my life, and at
government expense, as a delegate on a fact-finding mission organized and funded
by the Senate Committee on Ace Resources and Endeavors, under the official
sponsorship of the United Nations and the World Health Organization. We will
visit every continent but Antarctica and call upon thirty-nine different
countries (some only for a few hours), and our official charge is to investigate
the treatment of wild card victims in cultures around the world.
There are twenty-one delegates, only five of whom are jokers. I suppose my
selection is a great honor, recognition of my achievements and my status as a
community leader. I believe I have my good friend Dr. Tachyon to thank for it.
But then, I have my good friend Dr. Tachyon to thank for a great many things.


THE TINT OF HATRED
Part One


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MONDAY, DECEMBER 1, 1986, SYRIA:
A chill, arid wind blew from the mountains of the Jabal Alawite across the lava
rock and gravel desert of Badiyat Ash-sham. The wind snapped the canvas peaks of
the tents huddled around the village. The gale made those in the market pull the
sashes of their robes tighter against the cold. Under the beehive roof of the
largest of the mud-brick buildings, a stray gust caused the flame to gutter
against the bottom of an enameled teapot.
A small woman, swathed in the chador, the black Islamic garb, poured tea into
two small cups. Except for a row of bright blue beads on the headpiece, she wore
no ornamentation. She passed one of the cups to the other person in the room, a
raven-haired man of medium height, whose skin glowed a shimmering, lambent
emerald under a brocaded robe of azure. She could feel the warmth radiating from
him.
"It will be colder for the next several days, Najib," she said as she sipped the
piercingly sweet tea. "You'll be more comfortable at least."
Najib shrugged as if her words meant nothing. His lips tightened; his dark,