"Michael Swanwick - The Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

be—what—maybe two percent of the annual turnover? Zombies are luxury goods: servants,
reactor cleanups, Hollywood stunt deaths, exotic services"—we both knew what I
meant—"a few hundred a year, maybe, tops. There's not the demand. The revulsion factor is too
great."

"There's been a technological breakthrough." Courtney leaned forward. "They can install the infrasystem
and controllers and offer the product for the factory-floor cost of a new subcompact. That's way below
the economic threshold for blue-collar labor.
"Look at it from the viewpoint of a typical factory owner. He's already downsized to the bone and labor
costs are bleeding him dry. How can he compete in a dwindling consumer market? Now let's imagine he
buys into the program." She took out her Mont Blanc and began scribbling figures on the tablecloth. "No
benefits. No liability suits. No sick pay. No pilferage. We're talking about cutting labor costs by at least
two thirds. Minimum! That's irresistible, I don't care how big your revulsion factor is. We project we can
move five hundred thousand units in the first year."

"Five hundred thousand," I said. "That's crazy. Where the hell are you going to get the raw material
for—?"

"Africa."

"Oh, God, Courtney." I was struck wordless by the cynicism it took to even consider turning the
sub-Saharan tragedy to a profit, by the sheer, raw evil of channeling hard currency to the pocket Hitlers
who ran the camps. Courtney only smiled and gave that quick little flip of her head that meant she was
accessing the time on an optic chip.

"I think you're ready," she said, "to talk with Koestler."

At her gesture, the zombie boys erected projector lamps about us, fussed with the settings, turned them
on. Interference patterns moired, clashed, meshed. Walls of darkness erected themselves about us.
Courtney took out her flat and set it up on the table. Three taps of her nailed fingers and the round and
hairless face of Marvin Koestler appeared on the screen. "Ah, Courtney!" he said in a pleased voice.
"You're in—New York, yes? The San Moritz. With Donald." The slightest pause with each
accessed bit of information. "Did you have the antelope medallions?" When we shook our heads, he
kissed his fingertips. "Magnificent! They're ever so lightly braised and then smothered in buffalo
mozzarella. Nobody makes them better. I had the same dish in Florence the other day, and there was
simply no comparison."

I cleared my throat. "Is that where you are? Italy?"

"Let's leave out where I am." He made a dismissive gesture, as if it were a trifle. But Courtney's face
darkened. Corporate kidnapping being the growth industry it is, I'd gaffed badly. "The question
is—what do you think of my offer?"

"It's… interesting. For a lateral."

"It's the start-up costs. We're leveraged up to our asses as it is. You'll make out better this way in the
long run." He favored me with a sudden grin that went mean around the edges. Very much the financial
buccaneer. Then he leaned forward, lowered his voice, maintained firm eye contact. Classic
people-handling techniques. "You're not sold. You know you can trust Courtney to have checked out the
finances. Still, you think: It won't work. To work the product has to be irresistible, and it's not. It can't