"Robert A. Metzger - Quad-World" - читать интересную книгу автора (Metzger Robert)

suits, or needed more hands in the lab, things like footwear, color-coordinated ties, and buttoned-down
collars, seemed to mean more to the bean-counters that ran this company than the actual technical
content of my request. There was no escaping it, I'd have to get a new pair of shoes. An image filled my
head. I saw myself squirming through a mall, choked full of people who were incapable of taking more
than two shuffling steps forward without halting directly in my path, or even worse, pinning me up against
the window of a frozen yogurt parlor, holding me captive, and then exposing me to detailed discussions
that revolved around the merits of pink versus purple hair, or the grim details of stuffing a forty-two-inch
ass into a thirty-six-inch pair of jeans. My stomach tightened in a knot. Suddenly my shoes didn't look
quite so disgusting. With a little luck, I could probably get another few weeks out of them. Maybe, just
maybe.

The conference room door snapped open and images of fat asses, new wingtips, and frozen yogurt on a
stick vanished. Kent Cooper lurched in. He held a styrofoam cup in each hand. Half falling and half
sitting, he seemed to collapse in a chair at the far end of the table. He blew on one of his coffees and then
took a quick sip. He grimaced and his eyes narrowed to slits. Apparently the cafeteria was maintaining its
high level of culinary excellence.

He looked like hell, and I doubted that even two cupsтАЩ worth of caffeine would make any real difference.
His new baby had been home for almost a month now, and judging by his appearance his body had not
yet adjusted to that organic alarm clock firing at not quite periodic two-hour intervals.

тАЬMorning,тАЭ he said to me, grinning as he always did.

I just grinned back at him. In many ways I found him quite remarkable, but on mornings when he looked
like this I was in flat-out awe of him. He and his wife had survived two years with their first kid and,
apparently having so enjoyed the pain, suffering, and sleep-deprivation associated with the process, had
opted for a second. It was just one of the many amazing facets of his masochistic personality.

тАЬTube three has a crack in its hydrogen injector, and I had to kill it last night,тАЭ I said by way of casual
conversation.

He nodded, but didn't look up. He seemed to be intently studying something floating in one of his coffees.
So I left him alone and let him contemplate whatever it was he saw in his coffee.

I could suddenly hear an argument in the hallway.

The door eased open, then closed without anybody's having entered. It opened again and a leg popped
in, but a body didn't follow. I recognized that perfectly polished penny loafer digging into the shag carpet.
I shook my head, trying to rattle my brain. I seemed to be suffering from a shoe fetish today.

тАЬIf I don't get twenty gallons per minute of deionized water flow through those back hoods, we'll be
eating silicon wafers like they were potato chips,тАЭ said Jack Behnke as he hung out into the hallway.
тАЬAnd those chips go for eight bucks a pop.тАЭ

тАЬHave to redesign everything to do that,тАЭ said some distant voice.

тАЬNot my problem,тАЭ said Behnke, sounding somewhat happy about the pain he was inflicting. тАЬI speced
the requirements, and you guys signed up for it.тАЭ

тАЬWe're out of money,тАЭ said the distant voice, now starting to sound panicked.