"Resnick, Mike - Oracle 2 - Oracle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

"You spent a long time looking at it."
"I was curious."
They drove in silence for another minute, and then Gin spoke again. "Why do you think a Blue Devil wants to kill you?"
"Did I say I thought so?"
"You didn't have to." Gin paused. "But for the life of me, I can't figure out why a Blue Devil would give a damn whether you're on Port Marrakech or not."
There was a long pause, during which Gin decided not to push the subject and Chandler totally ignored it. Finally Chandler broke the silence: "How long before we reach wherever it is you're taking me?"
"Another couple of minutes, give or take."
"Tell me about the area we're passing through."
"Do you really care?" asked Gin.
"All morning long I haven't been able to shut you up," said Chandler with an ironic smile. "Now, when I want you to talk, suddenly you aren't interested."
Gin shrugged. "You're the boss. This part of town is called Little Spica. It's inhabited mostly by descendants of miners from Spica VI and shipbuilders from Spica II. A few Canphorites live on the outskirts, but the Spicans don't think much of most other aliens." He paused. "There's a great whorehouse over on the next block, if that's to your taste."
"Not especially."
"See this storefront here?" said Gin, slowing down. "They say that Santiago himself killed two women right there on the slidewalk about two hundred years ago. And that bar there, on the left? Best source of alphanella seeds in this part of town." He paused again. "You ever chewed any seeds?" He shook his head and answered his own question. "No, I suppose not. A man in your line of work needs a clear head."
"How many other cities are there on Port Marrakech?"
"Cities?" repeated Gin. "None. There are a couple of little villages, maybe five hundred people apiece, halfway around the world, farming communities mostly. No, most of the people live right here." They drove out of Little Spica and into an even seedier area, filled with the ornnipresent domed, whitewashed buildings, most of them covered with grime, many in need of repair.
"The alien quarter?" suggested Chandler.
"You got it. Mostly Blue Devils. The rest of them are a pretty mixed lot."
"Have you ever seen an alien that looked like a turtle?" asked Chandler.
"I don't even know what a turtle is," answered Gin. "Why?"
"Just curious," said Chandler.
"A man like you isn't subject to fits of idle curiosity," replied Gin. "If you'll describe it to me, maybe I can find out if there's anything here that fits the description."
"Some other time," said Chandler, dismissing the subject.
They sped through the city, Gin pointing out sites of local, historic, and criminal interest, Chandler asking an occasional question. During the next ten minutes their surroundings became progressively more elegant, and finally Gin slowed his vehicle and pulled up to a glistening hotel that looked like some ancient and exotic palace.
"Our first stop," said Gin. "This is the most expensive hotel in town."
Chandler nodded, then got out of the landcar.
"You want me to come with you?" asked Gin.
"Not necessary," answered Chandler. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
He entered the lobby, allowed the sparkling slidewalk to take him around a fountain that was engineered so that its thousands of jets of colored water met in such a manner that it formed an almost solid representation of a nude woman. As quickly as the figure lost its structural integrity, new jets of gold and red and white water would meet in midair, re-forming the figure. The slidewalk deposited him at the registration desk, where a uniformed man approached him from behind a broad, gleaming counter.
May I help you?" he asked.
"It's possible," said Chandler. "Do you have a Carlos Mendoza registered here?"
The man asked his computer, which replied in the negative.
"That's curious," said Chandler, frowning. "I was supposed to meet him here."
"There are no reservations in the name of Mendoza," said the man.
"Well, I'm sure he'll show up sooner or later."
"We're fully booked for the next three months, sir."
"That's his problem," said Chandler with a shrug. "I wonder if I could leave a message for him."
"Certainly, sir."
"Good. If Mr. Mendoza should show up, please tell him that the Whistler has completed his business here."
"That's all?"
"Not quite," said Chandler. "When Mendoza gets my message, he'll probably give you an envelope with my name on it. Please deposit it in your safe until I come by for it."
"I may not be on duty when you return," said the man. "If this is a financial transaction, we'll need some form of identification before we can release the funds to you, sir."
Chandler placed his fingers on the shining counter, then pressed down on it. "Did it register?"
The clerk checked a hidden screen behind the counter. "Yes, Mr. Whistler. We now have your fingerprints in our permanent file."
"Good," said Chandler, placing a five-hundred-credit note on the counter. "I am sure I can count on your discretion."
"Absolutely, sir." He picked up the bill and placed it in a pocket. "How can we contact you if Mr. Mendoza should deliver the envelope?"
"I'll contact you," answered Chandler, turning on his heel and walking back out to the landcar.
He repeated the process at three more hotels. When he emerged from the last of them, he entered the vehicle, leaned back, and relaxed.
"All right," he said to Gin. "I think I've announced my presence sufficiently."
"I saw you slipping some money to each desk clerk," noted Gin. "Are you paying them to spread the word?"
Chandler smiled in amusement. "I gave each of them five hundred credits not to tell anyone that I was on Port Marrakech."