"Larry Niven & Steve Barnes - Dreampark" - читать интересную книгу автора (Niven Larry)

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bright spot at last. Tell Skip to meet me at 'leven-thirty at the White Hart, okay? And ask him to
bring me the L5 specs. I want to see them. What about the class?"
"Standard Constraint and Detention stuff. For the new security people."
"Right." Alex glanced at his sleeve; the station was seconds away. "Make me a memo. Standing arm
bar, crossover toe hold for the ground work, and oh, let's say knife disarms. Right and left wrist
locks with low kicks. I'll wing it from there. I'm almost in, now, hon. I'll see you in a few
minutes, okay?"
"Right, Griff," she said, flashing him a smile as the picture faded out.
The shuttle let him out in the central core of the 1200-acre Dream Park complex, two levels
underground. Activity was heavy for this early, he thought. Then he remembered the Game. Odds were
there would be five thousand dollars of last-minute work to be done, or ho didn't know the catch-
up kings over in Special Projects.
Tunnels stretched off in all directions: up, down, sideways and maybe to yesterday and tomorrow if
the Research Department had come up with anything since breakfast. Most of the people scurrying
past knew him by name, tossing off a "Hi, Alex," or "Sappening, Griff?", or "Morning, Chief" as
they ferried racks of costumes, or props, or electronic equipment to the different divisions. A
cargo tram hissed in, and a crew of overalled workers and tiny humming cargo 'bots rushed in to
unload so that another shipment could hurry down the line.
He tossed a friendly salute to the guard at the elevator and pressed his right thumb against the
ID pad. The door opened. Five or six people crowded in after him, and Alex controlled his
annoyance when only two of them put their thumbs to the pad for clearance. More memos, dammit.

It was 6:22 A.M., Thursday, March 5, 2051, according to Alex's desk clock. Propped on the clock
was a sheet of fanfold paper, Millicent's printout of the day's obligations.
Alex doffed his coat and dropped into his chair. He punched a finger at the desk console. A
hologram "window" formed above his desk: a nameplate that read "Ms. Summers," and behind the
nameplate a dark pretty face whipping around to answer the buzz.
"Millicent, can't I foist some of this off on Bobbick? How the hell is he going to earn his pay if
I do all the work?"
"Marty is already with Insurance going over the damage report on the Salvage Game that ended
yesterday in Gaming Area B. He should be free by about two this afternoon, or do you want me to. .
.
"No, leave him on it. Listen. Do I have to go all the way over to R&D or can we take care of this
mess by phone? Lord knows I've got enough paper to shuffle before eight. Check it out, would you?"
"Right, Griff...I'm pretty sure that'll go."
Her face blinked out, and Alex punched for a display of today's "paperwork." Three columns of
headings ran off the screen. An executive secretary and a deputy Security Chief and this much
garbage still filtered up to him. Work first?
A slow smile played over his face. A little peek at the Park first.
He triggered the exterior monitor and watched the room swell with the darkened spirals of Dream
Park. From the vantage of the monitoring camera the workers readying the Park for the day's
visitors were ants streaming in and out of the long black shadows of early morning.
There was the somber shape of the Olde Arkham tour. (The kids loved it. The adults. . . well, an
old lady with a heart murmur had damn near croaked when Chthulhu appeared to devour her
grandchildren. Some people!)