"Paul Preuss - Venus Prime 1 - Breaking Strain" - читать интересную книгу автора (Preuss Paul)

racks on top. She stopped outside and listened. . . .

She heard the clink and thump of bottles, a cat whining for its dinner, the creak of wooden chairs and
floorboards, a toilet flushing in the back, and over all a surround-sound system cranked up just shy of
pain level. Under the musicтАУhoarse energetic anger of a male singer, rolling thunder of a bass line,
twined sinuous howls of a synthekord doing harmony and three kinds of percussionтАУshe picked out
some conversations.

тАЬRocks and straw,тАЭ a girl was saying, тАЬthey got a nerve even selling a lift ticket,тАЭ and elsewhere a boy
was trying to wheedle college class notes out of his companion. At another locationтАУthe bar, she
estimatedтАУsomeone was talking about a remodeling job on a nearby ranch. She listened a moment and
tuned in on that one; it sounded the most promisingтАУ

тАЬ. . . and this other dolly, blond hair down to there, just standing there staring through me, wearinтАЩ

file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/Bureaub...0-%20Venus%20Prime%201%20-%20Breaking%20Strain.html (22 of 182)23-12-2006 18:54:42
 ARTHUR C. CLARKE'S VENUS PRIME: VOLUME I

nothinтАЩ but this little pink piece of transparent silk like you see in those department store ads. But like I
wasnтАЩt even in the same room.тАЭ

тАЬProbтАЩly on somethinтАЩ. TheyтАЩre all on somethinтАЩ up there, man. You know that big sensie-mixer they
got, thatтАЩs supposed to be payinтАЩ for the place? That guy that runs itтАЩs so Z-based all the time, I donтАЩt
know how he feels anythinтАЩ . . .тАЭ

тАЬBut the dollies,тАЭ said the first voice. тАЬThatтАЩs what impressed me. I mean, weтАЩre walkinтАЩ back and forth
carryinтАЩ about one plank of knotty pine panel per trip, right? And these blond and brunette and red-
headed dollies are just sittinтАЩ and standinтАЩ and lyinтАЩ around there. . . .тАЭ

тАЬMost of the people who come through here, claim theyтАЩre goinтАЩ up to rent the studio facilities? TheyтАЩre
just dealinтАЩ, man,тАЭ the second voice confided. тАЬJust buyinтАЩ and sellinтАЩ . . .тАЭ

Sparta listened until she had what she needed. She let the cacophony fade and turned her attention to the
vehicles in the parking lot.

She tuned her vision toward the infrared until she could see warm handprints glowing on the
doorhandles, the brightest of them only a few minutes old. She inspected the more recent arrivals. Their
occupants were less likely to be leaving soon. She peered into the interior of a mud-spattered two-seater;
bright outlines of human bottoms glowed like valentines in both bucket seats. A lap robe bundled on the
floor in front of the passenger seat hid another warm object. Sparta hoped it was what she was looking
for.

Sparta pulled off her right glove. Chitinous spines slid from beneath her fingernails; gingerly, she
worked the probes extending from her index and middle fingers into the sliverport in the door on the
passenger side. She sensed the minute tingle of electrons along her conducting polymers: images of
numerical patterns danced at the threshold of consciousness; the surface molecules of her probes
reprogrammed themselvesтАУall so quickly that only the intention was conscious, not the process. As she
withdrew her fingertips the probes retracted. The car door swung open, its lock-and-alarm disarmed.

She pulled her glove on and lifted the lap rug. The object under it, recently handled, was a purse. She