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

your behavior after Succubus's death cost you the Democratic nomination that
year. After all, she was only a whore-wasn't she, Senator? -and not worth
your... your little breakdown." The reminder made him flush. "I'll wager we've
both thought about that moment every day since then," Sara continued. "It's been
ten years now, and I still remember."
Puppetman wailed, retreating. Gregg was startled into silence. My God, what does
she know, what is she hinting at? He had no time to formulate a reply. Amy's
voice spoke in his ear again. "Digger Downs is heading over at a trot; Senator.
He's with Aces magazine--covers the entertainment types; a real sleazeball, if
you ask me. Guess he saw Morgenstern and figured he'd listen in to a good
reporter-"
"Hiya, folks," Downs's voice intruded before Amy had finished speaking. Gregg
looked momentarily away from Sara to see a short, pallid young man. Downs
fidgeted nervously, sniffing as if he had a head cold. "Mind another reporter's
nosing in, Sara love?"
Downs was a maddening interruption, his manner rude and falsely familiar. He
seemed to sense Gregg's turmoil. He grinned and looked from Sara to Gregg,
ignoring Ellen and John.
" I think I've said all I want to-for the moment," Sara answered. Her pale aqua
eyes were still locked on Gregg's; her face seemed childlike with feigned
innocence. Then, with a lithe turn, she spun away from him, going toward
Tachyon. Gregg stared after her.
"Chick's looking damn good these days, ain't she, Senator?" Downs grinned again.
"Begging your pardon, of course, Mrs. Hartmann. Hey, let me introduce myself.
I'm Digger Downs, with Aces magazine, and I'll be tagging along on this little
venture. We'll be seeing a lot of each other."
Gregg, watching Sara disappear into the crowd around Tachyon, realized that
Downs was staring at him strangely. With an effort he forced his attention away
from Sara. "Pleased to meet you," he said to Downs.
His smile felt wooden. It made his cheeks ache.


FROM THE JOURNAL OF XAVIER DESMOND
DECEMBER 1/NEW YORK CITY:
The journey is off to an inauspicious start. For the last hour we have been
holding on the runway at Tomlin International, waiting for clearance for
takeoff. The problem, we are informed, is not here, but down in Havana. So we
wait.
Our plane is a custom 747 that the press has dubbed the Stacked Deck. The entire
central cabin has been converted to our requirements, the seats replaced with a
small medical laboratory, a press room for the print journalists, and a
miniature television 'studio for their electronic counterparts. The newsmen
themselves have been segregated in the tail. Already they've made it their own.
I was back there twenty minutes ago and found a poker game in progress. The
businessclass cabin is full of aides, assistants, secretaries, publicists, and
security personnel. First class is supposedly reserved exclusively for the
delegates.
As there are only twenty-one delegates, we rattle around like peas in a pod.
Even here the ghettoes persist jokers tend to sit with jokers, nats with nats,
aces with aces.