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

join them, waving them back.
Gregg had spent the last hour fending off reporters, smiling blankly for video
cameras, and blinking into the constant storm lightning of electronic flashes.
The room was noisy with shouted questions and the click-whirr of highspeed
Nikons. Musak played seasonal tunes over the ceiling speakers.
The main press contigent was now gathered around Dr. Tachyon, Chrysalis, and
Peregrine. Tachyon's scarlet hair gleamed like a beacon in the crowd; Peregrine
and Chrysalis seemed to be competing to see who could pose most provocatively
for the cameras. Nearby, Jack Braun-Golden Boy, the Judas Ace-was being
pointedly ignored.
The mob had thinned a bit since Hiram Worchester's staff from the Aces High had


file:///F|/rah/George%20R.%20R.%20Martin/Mart...R%20-%20Wildcards%204%20-%20Aces%20Abroad.txt (4 of 242) [1/17/03 7:02:58 PM]
 file:///F|/rah/George%20R.%20R.%20Martin/Martin,%20George%20R.%20R%20-%20Wildcards%204%20-%20Aces%20Abroad.txt

set up the buffet tables; some of the press had staked permanent claims around
the wellfreighted trays.
"Sorry, boss," John said at Gregg's elbow. Even in the cool room the aide was
perspiring. Blinking Christmas lights reflected from his beaded forehead: red,
then blue, then green. "Somebody on the airport staff dropped the ball. It
wasn't supposed to be this kind of free-for-all. I told them I wanted the press
escorted in after you guys were settled. They'd ask a few questions, then. . ."
He shrugged. "I'll take the blame. I should have checked to make sure everything
had been done."
Ellen gave John a withering glance but said nothing. "If John's apologizing,
make him grovel first, Senator. What a mess." That last was a whisper in Gregg's
ear-his other longtime aide, Amy Sorenson, was circulating through the crowd as
one of the security personnel. Her two-way radio was linked directly to a
wireless receiver in Gregg's ear. She fed him information, gave him names or
details concerning the people he met. Gregg's own memory for names and faces was
quite good, but Amy was an excellent backup. Between the two of them Gregg
rarely missed giving those around him a personal greeting.
John's fear of Gregg's anger was a bright, pulsing purple amidst the jumble of
his emotions. Gregg could feel Ellen's placid, dull acceptance, colored slightly
with annoyance. "It's okay, John," Gregg said softly, though underneath he was
seething. That part of him that he thought of as Puppetman squirmed restlessly,
begging to be let loose to play with the cascading emotions in the room. Half of
them are our puppets, controllable. Look, there's Father Squid over near the
door, trying to get away from that woman reporter. Feel his scarlet distress
even as he's smiling? He'd love to slither away and he's too polite to do it. We
could fuel that frustration into rage, make him curse the woman. We could feed
on that. All it would take is the smallest nudge ...
But Gregg couldn't do that, not with the aces gathered here, the ones Gregg
didn't dare take as puppets because they had mental abilities of their own, or
because he simply felt the prospect too risky: Golden Boy, Fantasy, Mistral,
Chrysalis. And the one he feared most of all: Tachyon. If they even had an
inkling of Puppetman's existence, if they knew what I've done to feed him,
Tachyon'd have them on me in a pack, the way he did with the Masons.
Gregg took a deep breath. The corner smelled overbearingly of pine. "Thanks,