"Paul Preuss - Re-Entry" - читать интересную книгу автора (Preuss Paul)

turnout.
Now if only Phil himself would turn out, fretted Evan Bruneau, Humboldt's
sensie-handsome young Third Officer. He smiled warmly at Vivee Chillingsworth,
and her diamonds, and her escort Robby Fain. Fain winked at Bruneau as he
steered the widow Chillingsworth under the grape arbor and into the lounge, but
Bruneau knew that Robby was only teasing.
Bruneau was beginning to fear the worst; the good doctor Holder was very
distinguished indeed, but more often these past couple of years for his epic
binges than for his contributions to the annals of medicine.
Not that Bruneau was a moralist. His major task was to keep Humboldts passengers
entertained on the ship's long, long voyages among the major ports of the
Archipelago, and Holder, a frequent passenger, was an invaluable resource: he
had an intimate knowledge of the cultures of the inhabited worlds, gained
through years of research, and he was an incurable raconteur. In return for
Holder's services as a lecturer, Bruneau was happy to cancel his bar tabs.
It was after 21:00 already. If Holder didn't show up in a couple of minutes,
Bruneau would have to send a steward around to the bars (Humboldt had eight).
And if Holder wasn't in one of them, Bruneau would be forced to admit defeat.
He'd show the travelogue sensie instead, and bis name would be mud.
Of course he'd know damn well where Holder was. That was another part of then-
unspoken arrangement: Holder took his pounds of flesh (all female, mostly
young), and somehow Bruneau managed never to think of the introductions he
arranged as pimping. Perhaps that was unfortunateтАФ in the present case it left
him no excuse to go rousting one guest out of another's bed. (Excuse me, Loa
darling, but Phil promised...)
But here came Loa Westcliffe now, fully dressed In diaphanous jumper, and all
alone.
Bruneau grinned with relief. "So nice to see you here, Loa darling."
"Where the hell else would I be, dear?" Westcliffe asked, tossing metallic green
locks. "Phil show up yet?"
"I couldn't say, really, I just..."
"In other words, no. If I were you I'd run quick as a bunny down to the Mirror
Room and fish him out of his martini, or you're not going to have a show
tonight." Her pale gray eyes were not smiling; she did not take the prospective
loss of an hour's amusement lightly.
Bruneau went white, and without wasting a word he bounded toward the lift with
improbably long and accurate strides.
Meanwhile Phil Holder sat all alone, sipping thoughtfully on what would have
been his second Scotch after dinnerтАФif he hadn't skipped dinner. A perfectly
sane man would not
have taken the risk of intoxicating himself even a little in the last hours
before an act so audacious as the one Holder now contemplated; Holder, though,
was neither completely sane nor completely foolish. He knew his capacity for
alcohol with intimate precision. He wanted people to believe he was drunk as
usual; moreover, the drinks would take the rasping edge off his nerves, as much
a danger to his plans as alcohol's dullness. And even granted that all the
excuses he could think of amounted to no better than a pile of shifting
rationale, still his drinking would serve as an excellent test of his sincerity:
did he dare remain sober?
He checked his wrist unit: 21:10. Where the hell's Bruneau? Doesn't he care?