"Donald Moffitt - Mechanical Sky 1 - Crescent in the Sky" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moffitt Donald)

passersby for Lalla's token. Before he stuffed it inside his djellaba, he had time to see that it was a folded
note in classical script; and nestling withinтАФ his heart almost stoppedтАФa tiny framed hologram of Lalla's
plump face.
The deep inset of the grille shielded him from observation from directly above, but very shortly, he was
sure, someone would emerge from the gatekeeper's door behind him. Had he been recognized in that brief
moment? He shrugged; there was no help for it if he had been. He hunched his neck down inside his
djellaba and prepared to blend with the holiday traffic streaming by.
And then, to his horror, he saw the Clonemaster striding pur-posefully down the street, heading directly
toward him.
Hamid-Jones stood transfixed. It was no good trying to flee; the Clonemaster's impatient eyes had locked
with his.
There was no denying that Hassan bin Fahd al-Hejjaj was an imposing, forbidding sight as he bore down
on him. The thick, cursive features, framed by an elegantly curled gray beard, were set in a stern, imperious
expression. He was cloaked in the splendor of fine brocades and wore the chain of office around his neck.
Hamid-Jones broke into a cold sweat, all too aware of the damning presence of the note and holo portrait
hidden under his djellaba.
At that moment the gate behind him opened and he was trapped between the Clonemaster and the
gatekeeper. He gulped and prepared to meet his doom.
 "What are you doing, skulking about outside?" the Clone-master demanded sternly. Hamid-Jones opened
his mouth but found he had nothing to say. The Clonemaster continued, "Why didn't you ring the bell and
wait inside? I've been looking ev-erywhere for you!"
Dazed, Hamid-Jones allowed himself to be led inside. The servants brought him a glass of iced tamarind,
and he sat down while the Clonemaster bustled off into the interior. He remem-bered then that his
communicator was turned off, and he switched it on again surreptitiously. He looked up and saw the chief
eunuch, a puffy, gray-complexioned man named Murad, standing in a doorway and gazing speculatively at
him.
The Clonemaster returned. "No time to go home and change," he said, frowning at Hamid-Jones's
Friday-best djel-laba. "Never mind, I'll loan you a cloak. Finished with your drink? They're bringing my dune
buggy around now."
"But what . . . where . . ." Hamid-Jones stammered.
The severe features of the Clonemaster softened in a smile of genuine pleasure. "It's a great honor for
you, my boy," he said. "Oh, I went to bat for you, of course, but it was your own competence as a cloning
technician that earned you the privi-lege."
"I don't understand, sidi," Hamid-Jones faltered.
"Haven't you played back the messages I left you? You're coming with me to the New Palace. You're
allowed to be present as a witness to the Emir's beheading."




CHAPTER 3

Before he had time to digest the change in his for-tunes, Hamid-Jones found himself climbing into the
silk-upholstered interior of the Clonemaster's desert car, to sit among the overstuffed cushions next to the
Clonemaster himself. A servant closed and sealed the door and stepped back while the kneeling vehicle
rose on the jointed struts that gave independent suspension to its six fat tires.
"Yallah, my son," the Clonemaster said, leaning forward to speak to the driver, and the buggy began to
roll down the Street of the Peacock toward the broad avenue that led to the outside airlock, the Bab
al-Dahub.
Hamid-Jones settled back to enjoy the ride. The driver was using his horn liberally to send pedestrians