"Reed, Robert - FirstTuesday" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Robert)

The boy looked at his President, at his smile, hearing the conjured voice saying
"Yes. That's a fine idea." Built of light and thought, he seemed invulnerable to
every slight, every unkind word.

Stefan had never envied anyone so much in his life.

Mom was a blizzard of activity, hands blurring as they tried to assemble a fancy
salad from ingredients grown in the garden, then cleaned and cut into delicate,
artful shapes. She loved salads, planning each with an artist's sensibilities,
which to Morn meant that she could never predict preparation times, always
something to be done too fast at the end. When she saw Stefan inside, she
whined, "I'm still not ready." When she saw President Perez fluttering for that
instant when he passed from the outside to the kitchen projectors, she gave a
little squeal and threw spinach in every direction. Then she spoke, not leaving
enough time to think of proper words. "You've lost weight," she blurted. "Since
the election, haven't you. . . . ?"

Embarrassed again, Stefan said, "The President of the United States," with a
stem voice. In warning. Didn't Morn remember how to address him?

But the President seemed amused, if anything. "I've lost a couple kilos, yes.
Job pressures. And the First Lady's anti-equatorial campaign, too."

The joke puzzled Stefan until he stopped thinking about it.

"A drink, Mr. President? I'm having a drop for myself. . ."

"Wine, please. If that's not too much trouble."

Both adults giggled. Touching a control, More ordered an elegant glass to appear
on the countertop, already filled with sparkling white wine, and their guest
went through the motions of sipping it, his personality given every flavor along
with an ethanol kick. "Lovely," he declared. "Thanks."

"And how is the First Lady?"

It was a trivial question, Stefan within his rights to groan.

Mom glared at him, in warning. "Go find Candace, why don't you?" Then she turned
back to their guest, again inquiring about his dear wife.

"Quite well, thank you. But tired of Washington."

Mom's drink was large and colorful, projected swirls of red and green never
mixing together. "I wish she could have come. I adore her. And oh, I love what
she's done with your house."

The President glanced at his surroundings. "And I'm sure she'd approve of your
tastes, Mrs. Thatcher."