"Kristine Katheryn Rusch - Alien Influences" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

zepeatas. But he wouldn't tell her that.

Anita threaded her way through the displays to the back. He felt himself relax. There he would find the
artwork he soughtтАФthe priceless, the illegal, the works that had made her famous. But when the door
slid open, his mood vanished.

Crates, cartons, holoshippers, transmission machines, more credit slots. The faint odor of food. A desk
covered with hard-copy invoices and credit records. A small cache of wine behind the overstuffed chair,
and a microprocessor for late-night meals. A work space, nothing more.

She let the door close behind them, her gaze measuring him. He was missing something. He would lose
the entire commission if he didn't find it.
He closed his eyes and saw in his imagination what his actual vision had missed. The dimensions of the
rooms were off. The front was twice the size of the back. Base regulations required square salesтАФeach
purchased compartment had to form a box equal on all sides. She had divided her box into three
sectionsтАФshowroom, back workroom, and special gallery. But where?

Where something didn't fit. The wine. She sold wine as artтАФnectar of the gods, never drinking it, always
collecting it. Wine didn't belong with the boxes and invoices.

He opened his eyes, crouched down, scanned the wine rack. Most bottles came from Earth. They were
made with the heavy, too-thick glass that suggested work centuries old. Only one didn't belong: a thin
bottle of the base-made synth stuff. He pulled it, felt something small fall into his hand. He clenched his
hand to hold it as the wall slid back.

Inside was the gallery he had been expecting.

Holos of previous artifacts danced across the back wall. In those holos the baby Minaran swam. He
wondered where it was now; if it could feel happiness, exploitation. He made himself look away.

A tiny helldog from Frizos clawed at a glass cage. A mobile ice sculpture from Ngela rotated under cool
lights. Four canisters in a bowl indicated a Colleician scent painting. He had seen only one before; all he
had to do was touch it, and he would be bathed in alien memories.

More valuables drifted off in the distance. Some hung on walls, some rested on pedestals, and some
floated around him. None had the standard red credit slot beside them. They were all set up for
negotiation, bargaining, and extortion.

тАЬImpressed?тАЭ She sounded sarcastic, as if a man with his background could not help but be impressed.

He was, but not for the reasons she thought. He knew how much skill it took to capture each item, to
bring it onto a base with strict limitations for importing. тАЬYou have your own hunters. Why hire me?тАЭ

She tapped on the helldog's cage. John winced. The dog didn't move. тАЬI would have had to hire a hunter
no matter what,тАЭ she said. тАЬIf I removed one of my own people from a normal routine, I would have to
hire a replacement. I choose not to do that. My people have their own lives, their own beats, and their
own predilections. This incident calls for someone a bit more adaptable, a free-lancer. A person like
you.тАЭ

He nodded, deciding that was the best answer he would get from her. Perhaps she had chosen him, and