"Resnick, Mike - Oracle 3 - Prophet" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

"I was twelve when you were here the last time," replied the young man. "I saw you take on nine men at once." He paused then extended his hand. "My name's Neil. Neil Cayman."
Lomax looked at his hand for a moment, then took it briefly.
"I'm Felix Lomax."
Neil shook his head. "You're the Gravedancer." He paused. "Where are you going from here?"
Lomax shrugged. "It all depends on what I learn while I'm here."
Neil seemed lost in thought for a moment, then spoke up. "Do you want some company?"
"Where?"
"Out there," he said, waving his hand toward the sky. "I've spent my whole life on this world. I'd like to see something different."
"I work alone."
"I could be useful to you."
"Every damned world I touch down on, there's always some kid who wants to go out and make a name for himself on the Inner Frontier," answered Lomax. "Most of 'em die before the undertaker knows what name to put on their headstones."
"I'm different," said Neil.
"Yeah, I know," said Lomax. "You're all different."
"I've spent my whole life on Greycloud," continued Neil. "I want to see what's out there."
"Book passage with a tour group," answered Lomax. "You'll live longer."
"I don't want to see what tourists see," persisted Neil. "I want to see the way the worlds really are, the way the people really live." He paused. "I've got some money saved. I could be ready to go by this afternoon."
"Not with me," said Lomax.
"I'd do any kind of work you asked me to do, anything at all."
"Not interested."
The road turned inland, and was now lined by thick tropical foliage, which began thinning out as they moved farther away from the ocean.
"There have to be places where your face is known, where people run when they see you coming. I could go to those places and get information for you."
"Today is an exception," said Lomax. "Usually I'm after men, not information."
"I could spot them for you, let you know what their habits are, where they're likely to be. I wouldn't ask for any pay or anything like that," continued the young man. "Just a chance to get off this boring little world and travel with someone like you."
"I admire your persistence," said Lomax. "But the answer is the same."
"You're making a mistake, Gravedancer."
Lomax shrugged. "It's possible. I've made 'em before."
"Then let me come with you."
"I've also learned to live with the consequences of my mistakes," said Lomax. "The subject is closed."
They came to a tiny town, composed of a broad single street lined with some four dozen stores and shops, an old hotel, and a pair of restaurants, one of which was serving its customers in a shaded outdoor patio area. Neil drove more than halfway down the street and pulled up to a storefront.
"I'll wait here for you," he announced.
Lomax left the groundcar without a word and entered the store, a warm, dusty, single-story building that displayed a number of leather goods in the windows: coats, jackets, belts, hats, boots. Toward the back were sheets of various leathers, and hanging carefully from the walls were a number of pelts.
"Yes?" said a thin, balding man, walking out from a back room. "Can I help you?"
"Possibly," said Lomax, reaching into his leather holdall and withdrawing one of the dead man's boots. "Do you recognize this?"
The old man held it up to the light for a moment.
"Made from a Bluefire Dragon," he said.
"You made it?"
"If anyone else on the Frontier makes 'em, I sure as hell haven't heard about it." He examined it further. "This was a custom job too. My label' s not in it."
"How many custom boots do you make in a year's time?"
"Oh, maybe fifty."
"From Bluefire Dragons?"
"Maybe two or three."
"Good," said Lomax, pulling out the holograph and handing it over to the old man. "Do you recognize him?"
"Looks dead," noted the old man.
"He is. Do you know him?"
The old man nodded. "Yeah, I made some boots for him maybe seven, eight months ago."
"What can you tell me about him?"
"He wasn't real talkative," said the old man. "Seems to me he spent most of the day waiting in the bar across the street, then picked up his boots, paid for 'em, and left."
"Did he have a name?"
"Let me check my records," said the old man, activating his computer. "Yeah. His name is . . . was . . . Cole. Jason Cole."
"Did he pay cash?" asked Lomax.