"Kevin O'Donnel Jr. - The Journeys of McGill Feighan 04] - Cliffs" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Donnell Jr Kevin)

before buffing it to a sheen. The soft scent of lemon hung in the air.
The hotel promised security, and delivered security. It guarded its guests
against danger from the macroscopic to the microscopic. If in the process of
keeping its promise it had to sterilize the environment, obliterating all traces
of occupancy and restoring the room to its original state of anonymity, well,
better that than a neurotic billionaire disgusted by a stray hair in the sink.
Feighan did not know if he could take it much longer. He stepped inside.
"Are you about done here?"
The maid's cleaning attachments continued to whir, but the middle
segment of its three-tier turret spun around to train a camera lens on him.
Behind the mirrored panels that cloaked its chips and gears, something
clicked. "Mr. Feighan." The voice evoked images of humanity, but was not
itself human. "I will be done in fifteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Or
I could return later. Please specify your choice."
"Come back later." He crossed the room and dropped into an easy chair.
"What did you do with the morning paper?"
"It is on the desk in the right-hand bedroom. At what time will it be
convenient for me to return?"
"Any time after nine."
"A.m. or p.m., Mr. Feighan?"
"A.m." He checked his watch. "Forty-five minutes from now."
"Will you be out all day, or will you be returning early, Mr. Feighan?"
"I'll probably be back about one in the afternoon."
"Very good, Mr. Feighan. Your room will be ready for you." It gave the
table one last whisk with the buffing cloth, then retracted its attachments
and rolled to the door. "Please be certain to attach the chain lock after I
leave, Mr. Feighan."
"Sure thing." And when he had, he retrieved the paper and carried it into
the bathroom.
At two minutes to nine he dropped the paper on the floor, stood, and
stretched. The phone rang.
At a snap of his fingers, an unseen microphone clicked on. He could
activate the video display later, if he needed it. "Yes?"
A cool, nearly-but-not-quite feminine voice said, "Director Walking
Mule's office here, Mr. Feighan. The director would appreciate your
stopping in to see him before you report to work. May I tell him you will be
here soon?"
"I'm on my way."
"Very good, Mr. Feighan."
He closed his eyes, the more carefully to visualize his destination: a
spacious, well-proportioned reception room, with a soft grey carpet and
friendly orange walls and wall-holos of the American southwest. While a
portion of his mind held that image steady, another portion built up a
picture of himself: a tall young man, broad-shouldered, sporting a Roman
nose and tousled black hair. As he overlaid the first vision with the second,
he knew, though he would never be able to verbalize his manner of
knowing, how to place the second picture into the first.
Not difficult, child's play in fact, since the two were so close and their
differences so minor, just a tug here and a twist there andтАФ
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