"bud sparhawk - the suit" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sparhawk Bud)

upgrade too.тАЭ

тАЬA beautiful dress,тАЭ I said, struggling to keep a smile on my face as I
tried to force the damned suit to link to hers.
 тАЬSince you agree, thatтАЩs what IтАЩll get.тАЭ She leaned toward my robot
and said, тАЬIтАЩll take those red heels with the strap,тАЭ and touched the pair she
wanted.

While our robots negotiated with our clothing over the billing, I smiled
and got a nice one in reply. Who knew what this could lead to if only my suit
would establish that damned link? Were beads of sweat forming on my
forehead? In desperation I turned off the comm feature entirely.

Her face became expressionless, the usual sign that someone is
turning their attention inward. Her face lost the smile. тАЬLook, IтАЩm sorry,тАЭ she
said quickly as she came out of the call and stepped backwards. тАЬBut I
have to rush. Nice meeting you and all that,тАЭ she shouted over her shoulder
as she practically ran from the store.

Had it been something she got from my suit?

****

I tried to access the data my suit had downloaded as I walked back to
the office, but there were nothing but blank fields. Had she refused to send
her data or was it the buggy suitware acting up again? Damn, and here I
thought we were making a real connection, more than just casual
conversation, at any rate. Had I read the situation wrong? Was there
something about my data that had caused her to rush away? Had a serial
killer or potential rapist hacked my suitware? No, that couldnтАЩt be. A
momentтАЩs check told me there was nothing untoward in my files. In fact,
there was nothing in my files whatsoever, and the suit insisted I was named
Susan.

A quick reset restored the suit as of the last backup, which was fifteen
minutes before I ate that delightful salad. Sadly, I had no record whatever
of anything that had happened while I was in Dankers.

I had to assume that the redhead simply did not like whatever my suit
had downloaded to her. The more I considered that possibility the more
despondent I became. Why had I ever chosen to wear a suit that wasnтАЩt
functioning properly? Stupid, stupid, stupid, I cursed.

I needed something to make me feel better, so I instructed my suit to
call in an order for a pint of chocolate chip ice cream from an automated
kiosk near my apartment. I knew that the pleasure of tasting those chill
chunks of chocolate surrounded by creamy vanilla would bring my wounded
emotions back into balance.
 YOU SHOULD NOT INDULGE IN ICE CREAM, my underwear
informed me. I ignored the warning. The ice cream wasnтАЩt about weight,