"George R. R. Martin - WC 8 - One Eyed Jacks" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

"Ain't that the Lord's gospel--careful," he cautioned suddenly, but Cody was
already in the process of a quick and nimble two-step over a body that looked
made from limp spaghetti, spilling out of its chair and partially across the
hallway. `Nice move.
"That touch, at least, I haven't lost."
"If you'd been a guy, the NFL woulda been your fame an' fortune."
There was no air-conditioning-the system had been overwhelmed by the summer's
murderous heat, Scent told her, and there simply wasn't money in the budget for
repairs-and the atmosphere was rotten. The sky outside the windows was only
beginning to hint at the approaching dawn, heaven help them once the sun
actually came up. New York, she knew, didn't suffer summer gladly, and this
August appeared worse than most.
"Scent, something is out there."
"A lotta shit's out there, Cody. An' it's all startin' to come down-hard."
"Shiloh."
"That's right, you were there. Yup"-he sighed"Shiloh. Or worse. Here's the
hooch. It's a mess, but that's the way you docs seem to like, I guess...."
"When were young and broke and working ninety-six hours at a stretch."
"Break my heart. Anyway, you hungry after, I know a nice diner, coupla blocks'
walk, serves finest-kind breakfast."
"I'll let you know"
"Take care, Major."
"Thanks, Sergeant. This is one I owe you."
Tachyon's office, surprisingly, was nothing special, standard bureaucratic box
with a view of the river and the Brooklyn waterfront. One wall of bookshelves
full of medical texts, a pair of computer terminals on a table underneath
littered with disks. Tachyon's desk angled so he could look out the windows
without turning his back on any visitor. It was an antique; she didn't know
enough to name the period or style, only that it was as magnificent as the small
sideboard tucked into the corner behind it. The window was wide open, covered
with a screen, with piles of documents stacked haphazardly on the sill. The sky
was dark and a whisper of wind stirred the papersstorm signs, a nasty one, and
she reacted instinctively, stepping behind the desk to shift the material to the
floor below and lever the window partially closed. Made the room that much
warmer, by cutting down the admittedly minimal circulation, but at least
everything in it wouldn't end up drenched. She hoped the rain would mean the end
of the heat wave, but doubted it. Drought had scarred most of the country this
summer, days of three-figure temperatures everywhere you went-there was talk up
and down the Midwest of a return to the Depression dust bowl-and she knew
firsthand what the weather had done to her beloved mountains. There'd been
another report on NPR's Morning Edition about the Yellowstone fires, memory
filling her nostrils with the acrid tang of pine smoke.
"I hope, Dr. Havero, this interview suits you as much as my office clearly
does."
She jumped, taken by surprise, realizing that she'd sunk down into the chair
behind the desk-automatically making herself at home-and cursing the fact that
the door was to her right, her blind side. Began to stammer an apology, vetoed
the thought, tried instead to pass the faux pas off with a shrug and a smile.
The voice had the natural elegance of a classic noble vampire-which made her
smile easier-and the man himself was everything his office was not, cut from a