"Charles Stross - Merchant princes 01 - The Family Trade" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

formal interview affair, not at all the right thing for a rainy Monday pounding
the streetsтАФor at least doing telephone interviews from a cubicle in the office.
She started again and finally managed to put together an outfit. Black boots,
trousers, jacket, turtle-neck, and trench coat: as black as her Monday morning
mood. / look like a gangster, she thought and chuckled to herself. "Gangsters!"
That was what she had to do today. One glance at her watch told her that she
didn't have time for makeup. It wasn't as if she had to impress anyone at the
office anyway: They knew damned well who she was.
She slid behind the wheel of her four-year-old Saturn, and thankfully it started
first time. But traffic was backed up, one of her wiper blades needed replacing,
the radio had taken to crackling erratically, and she couldn't stop yawning.
Mondays, she thought. My favourite day! Not. At least she had a parking space
waiting for herтАФone of the handful reserved for senior journalists who had to go
places and interview thrusting new economy executives. Or money-laundering
gangsters, the nouveau riche of the pharmaceutical world.
Twenty minutes later she pulled into a crowded lot behind an anonymous office
building in Cambridge, just off Somerville Avenue, with satellite dishes on the
roof and fat cables snaking down into the basement. Headquarters of The Industry
Weatherman, journal of the tech VC community and Miriam's employer for the past
three years. She swiped her pass-card, hit the elevator up to the third floor,
and stepped out into cubicle farm chaos. Desks with PCs and drifts of paper that
overflowed onto the floor: A couple of harried Puerto Rican cleaners emptied
garbage cans into a trolley laden with bags, to a background of phones ringing
and anchors gabbling on CNN, Bloomberg, Fox. Black space-age Aeron chairs
everywhere, all wire and plastic, electric chairs for a fully wired future.
" 'Lo, Emily," she nodded, passing the departmental secretary.
"Hi! With you in a sec." Emily lifted her finger from the "mute" button, went
back to glassy-eyed attention. "Yes, I'll send them up as soon asтАФ"
Miriam's desk was clean: The stack of press releases was orderly, the computer
monitor was polished, and there were no dead coffee cups lying around. By tech
journalist standards, this made her a neat freak. She'd always been that way
about her work, even when she was a toddler. Liked all her crayons lined up in a
row. Occasionally she wished she could manage the housework the same way, but
for some reason the skill set didn't seem to be transferable. But this was work,
and work was always under control. I wonder where Paulie's gotten to?
"Hi, babe!" As if on cue, Paulette poked her head around the side of the
partition. Short, blonde, and bubbly, not even a rainy Monday morning could dent
her enthusiasm. "How's it going? You ready to teach these goodfellas a lesson?"
" 'Goodfellas?'" Miriam raised an eyebrow. Paulette took the cue, slid sideways
into her cubicle, and dropped into the spare chair, forcing Miriam to shuffle
sideways to make room. Paulie was obviously enjoying herself: It was one of the
few benefits of being a research gofer. Miriam waited.
"Goodfellas," Paulette said with relish. "You want a coffee? This is gonna take
a while."
"Coffee." Miriam considered. "That would be good."
"Yeah, well." Paulette stood up. "Read this, it'll save us both some time." She
pointed out a two-inch-thick sheaf of printouts and photocopies to Miriam, then
made a beeline for the departmental coffeepot.
Miriam sighed and rubbed her eyes as she read the first page. Paulie had done
her job with terrifying efficiency yet again: Miriam had only worked with her on