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

ROBERT REED - Treasure Buried

R & D WERE UP AGAINST THE titans from Marketing, seven innings of groin-pulling,
hamstring-shredding, take-no-prisoners slow-pitch softball, and Marketing had
stacked their team. It was obvious to Mekal.

"What do you think, Wallace? That kid in center field? He's got to play college
ball. And their shortstop, what's her name? With the forearms? I bet if you
stuck her you'd get more testosterone than blood, I bet so. And Jesus, that
pitcher has got to have a dose of chimp genes. You haven't been moonlighting,
have you, Wallace? Arms like those. Reaching halfway to home plate before
releasing. But hey, Meiter drew a walk at least. If they don't double us up, I'm
getting my swings. So wish me luck, Wallace. I'm planning to go downtown!"

Wallace nodded, uncertain what "downtown" meant and certainly bored with the
pageant happening around him. He was aware of Mekal rising to his feet -- a tall
rangy man old enough not to be boyish anymore, yet not softened enough to be
middle-aged -- and then Wallace wasn't aware of anything besides the sunshine
and his own convoluted thoughts. "Chimp Genes" reminded him of a problem at
work. Not Wallace's problem, but he was the resident troubleshooter and the
Primate Division was having more troubles with their freefall monkeys. The
little critters weren't behaving themselves in orbit, either their training or
their expensive genes at fault. They were put into the space stations to help
clean and to keep the personnel company. Friendly, cuddly companions, and all
that. But the prototypes were shitting everywhere and screaming day and night.
And Wallace was wondering if it was something subtle, even stupid, overlooked as
a consequence. Zero-gee, freefall . . . was it some kind of inbred panic
reaction? Maybe the monkeys had troubles with weightlessness. What if . . . what
if they felt as if they were falling, tailoring and instinct making it seem as
if they were tumbling from some infinitely tall canopy -- a thousand mile drop,
the poor things-- and with that sweet possibility in mind Wallace heard the
crack of a composite bat, Mekal standing at home plate, screaming:

"Go go go you ugly fuck of a ball!"

A blurring white something arced across the soft blue sky, geometric perfection
drawing Wallace's attention; and then the center fielder jumped high against the
back fence, ball and glove meeting, his grace casual to the point of insulting
and the inning finished. Five runs down already, and Mekal stormed back to the
dugout in the worst kind of rage -- silent -- standing without moving for a long
moment, unable to focus his eyes or even think. It was that famous Mekal
intensity. In R&D he was feared and sucked up to, some employees openly hoping
that the man's temper would cause some vital artery to burst in his brain. Not
necessarily killing him, no. But causing a constructive kind of brain damage,
removing the most offensive portions of his personality --

-- and then there was a voice, close and almost soft. The voice said to Mekal,
"But you almost did it." A woman's voice. A girl's. Nobody Wallace knew, and he
turned his head before shyness could engage, the girl watching Mekal with a