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

mold uniquely his own. She found herself looking down at him as they sidled past
each other, exchanging positions. He was a head shorter. Her left hand went out
in greetingwhich was when her conscious mind twigged to what her unconscious had
already registered, that Tachyon's right arm ended at the wrist.
He responded with a soft left-handed handshake, the slightest of smiles
acknowledging and appreciating her courtesy.



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"A meeting I've been looking forward to, actually, for quite some time. Scent -I
don't know if you're aware, but he's the director of our Vietnam Veterans
Outreach Program has been singing your praises to these many years." He motioned
her to take a chair. She'd seen pictures of him, of course, but on paper-and
especially,- the tube-it was easy to dismiss his eccentric costumes as just
that, costumes, the man himself trivialized into a character from some tacky
teleplay.
"But I suspect," he continued, "the anticipation is not quite mutual."
"Is it that obvious," she replied, thinking deliberately loudly, or did you read
my mind to discover it?
In person, his appearance was no less outrageous, but far more effective. Living
embodiment of an eighteenthcentury aristo. Plum trousers tucked into gray suede
buccaneer boots, ruled green shirt beneath orange, doublebreasted waistcoat, the
effect actually enhanced by its contrast with the white hospital-issue lab coat
that stood in for the burgundy frock coat hung on a corner rack.
He motioned toward the papers she'd moved. "Much appreciated," he told her,
ignoring her inner and outer response. "It's often far too easy to be
overwhelmed by the clutter here. As you might have guessed, I am far from the
most organized of souls. And good secretaries, especially in Jokertown, are
damnably hard to find."
The pieces of his face didn't fit together in any manner that might be
considered classically handsome, yet the sum of the parts was undeniably
attractive. The same description had often been applied to Cody. Though the end
result in his case is, she thought, somewhat more delicate. A sling cradled his
right arm, the stump swathed in fresh bandages, a recent wound. There'd been no
hint of this in the letter he'd sent inviting her to New York. Wonder what I've
missed fighting fires in the boonies? she thought. It also helped explain the
fragility in his manner, she'd seen it herself too often in casualty wards. And
she remembered her own reactions, coming out of anesthetic to discover her right
eye gone.
"That what you want from me?"
"Hardly, given your resume." He looked quizzically at her. "Are you always this
direct?"
"Yes," she said simply.
A sudden shadow crossed the inside of his eyes and she knew somehow she'd
slipped through his barriers, touched a memory as painful as her own. Her face
flushed, with anger and resentment, and she didn't bother masking her exultation
at this small, trivial score. Who the fuck do you think you are, cock? she