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

removed the registration sliver, then left it as it had beenтАУexactly as it had been, with the lap robe folded
precisely as it was folded before, according to the image of it temporarily stored in her memory. She
nudged the door closed.

Sparta stomped the snow off her boots on the covered porch and pushed through the ramshackle double
doors, to be greeted by a blast of smoky air and badly amplified surround-sound. Most of the small
crowd were couples, college kids on the way back from skiing. A few local males, wearing tattered jeans
and threadbare plaid flannel shirts over red long-johns, were hanging out at the end of the long
mahogany bar. Their eyes fixed on her as she walked boldly toward them.



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 ARTHUR C. CLARKE'S VENUS PRIME: VOLUME I

The carpenter sheтАЩd overheard was easy to identify; he was the one wearing a laser-rule in a worn
leather holster on his hip. She hitched herself onto the stool beside him and gave him a long,
contemptuous stare, her eyes focused slightly behind his head, before turning her eyes to the bartender.

The bartenderтАЩs curly orange hair startled her. That passed quicklyтАУhe also wore a frizzy beard. тАЬWhatтАЩll
it be, lady?тАЭ

тАЬGlass of red. You got anything decent to eat? IтАЩm starved.тАЭ

тАЬUsual autochef stuff.тАЭ

тАЬHell . . . cheeseburger, then. Medium. Everything on it. Fries.тАЭ

The bartender went to the grease-streaked stainless steel console behind the bar and shoved four buttons.
He took a glass from the overhead rack and stuck a hose into it, filling it with fizzy wine the color of
cranberry juice. On the way back he took the burger and fries from the maw of the steel autochef,
holding both plates in his wide right hand, and slid everything onto the bartop in front of Sparta. тАЬForty-
three bucks. Servee-compree.тАЭ

She handed him the sliver. He recorded the transaction and laid the sliver in front of her. She let it sit
there, wondering which of the women in the tavern was buying her dinner.

The bartender, the carpenter, and the other men at the bar had apparently run out of conversation; they
all stared at Sparta wordlessly while she ate.

The sensations of smelling, tasting, chewing, swallowing nearly overloaded her eager internal systems.
The curdled fat, the carbonized sugar, already half-digested proteins were at once desperately craved and
nauseating in their richness. For a few minutes hunger suppressed revulsion.

Then she was done. But she didnтАЩt look up until she had licked the last drop of grease from her fingers.

She peered at the carpenter again, giving him the same cold, lingering stare, ignoring the black-bearded
man behind him, who stared at her in pop-eyed fascination.

тАЬI know you from somewhere,тАЭ the carpenter said.