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

puzzle; that's all I'm told-- and in the evening, in a tiny studio not ten
minutes from my apartment, we'll go toe-to-toe in U.S. geography.

I bet the old gal knows a lot of geography. What could be worse, I'm thinking,
than being knocked out in the opening round by some low-rank half-artificial
grandmother?

When the phone rings again, I mute it. It's probably Bette calling to
congratulate me, then tease me about my opponent. Except I'm not in the mood to
be teased. Just to feel confident, I start naming state capitals. And I forget
Guam's, which puts me into a panic. I'm taking a refresher course when Bette
arrives -- a breasty, big-hipped woman strolling into my apartment without
sound. I barely notice her as she turns through dozens of sports channels,
finally finding what she wants on the Net and cranking up the volume until my
ears hurt.

"According to friends," says a well-groomed reporter, "she felt chest pains as
she reached for the phone. It was five o'clock exactly." A lean, white-haired
woman hovers over his shoulder. Ms. June Harryman. "An artificial heart is being
implanted --"

"What?" I cry out.

"-- with Ms. Harryman's long-term prospects deemed excellent."

"Didn't you know?" Bette's round face smiles, thoroughly amused. "Hasn't it told
you?"

It means the Net, which has to know. The Net handles emergency calls, controls
every autodoc, and identifies consequences in an instant. Of course it knows.

A light blinks on my console. Punching the button, I hear:

"Mr. Masters, you have a bye for next Monday." Infinitely patient and incapable
of amusement, the voice gives no sign of being impressed with my remarkable
luck. "Enjoy your weekend, sir. And we'll see you on Tuesday morning." 524 288

Reach the first round, and you're guaranteed a few dollars. It doesn't pay for a
cheap treadmill or two hours of forced hypnosis, but it's a wage, and for some
people it's all they want. The illusion of being professional, that sort of
thing.

Payoffs accelerate slowly at first; you need to get out of the first week before
you earn a living wage. Win your district -- my goal of goals--and you'll have a
comfortable life. But then come the regionals and the authentic wealth. And if
you can defeat all twenty of your opponents -- one of us does that trick every
year-- the Net awards you a billion dollars, tax-free, then transmits to you
every congratulation from every one of your forgotten cousins.

Bette says the Tournament is silly. She says that a happy, wealth y nation needs