"Scott Westerfeld - Non-Disclosure Agreement" - читать интересную книгу автора (Westerfeld Scott)

and the ice machine.

I've always been fascinated with mechanical keys. I guess a lot of computer geeks are. Very early
crypto. And a fascinating email screed had recently been forwarded to me. It proclaimed that one's status
in society bears an inverse relationship to the number of keys in one's possession. The lowly janitor has
rings and rings of them. The assistant manager has to get in early to open up the fast-food restaurant тАФ
the boss comes in later. And as we climb the economic ladder, more and more other people appear to
open the doors, drive the cars, and deal with the petty mechanics of security. So here I was, boy
millionaire in the back seat, armed with only my hotel smartcard and that tiny signifier of minibar privilege,
as miniscule as the key for some diary of childhood dreams.

Much like the empty pages of a blank book, this small key had limitless power over my imagination. I felt
in its tiny metal teeth the ability to consume six-dollar Toblerone bars and twelve-dollar Coronas. To pick
through exquisitely small and expensive cans of mixed nuts and discard all but the cashews. Indeed, in my
initial reconnaissance of the bar, I'd spotted a child-sized humidor in the back, no doubt offering cigarillos
of post-Fidel provenance and jaw-dropping price. And all these miniaturized delights would be charged
to Falling Man.

Fondling that little key in the back of the car, I realized a secret truth: This moment was why I had come
to LA. To raid the refrigerator.

Later, it occurred to me that if I had somehow known that my death was nigh, I would have done pretty
much the same thing with my last hours, indulged pretty much the same sensuous pleasures and petty
revenge. Perhaps on a grander scale, but with no greater depth of spirit. And I suppose that's why I was
sent to Hell.

.

That night at the burn, I was woozy.

The six beers were nothing, and those airplane-sized bottles of Matusalem Rum wouldn't have inebriated
a five-year old. But I was a child of the post-smoking era, and I should have stayed away from the
cigarillos. I felt as if some pre-Cambrian 1950s dad had locked me in a closet with a carton of
Marlboros to finish off. My mouth was horribly dry, and I craved a drink. Preferably from one of the
giant hoses that drooped in the arms of the firefighters that the LAFD had sent to oversee our little
inferno.

With the desultory taste of ashtray in my mouth, I didn't even bother starting the fire myself. I left the
honors to a production assistant with a cute smile.

I just mumbled, "Action."

She threw the large, Dr. Frankenstein-style connection switch, and the gallons of accelerant we'd
sprayed throughout the doomed house ignited. A wave of comforting warmth spread from the fire,
reaching us through the cool desert air a few seconds after the first flames burst from the bungalow's
windows.

A ragged cheer went up from the crew, rewarded at last for the hot work of prepping through two
August days. Six of them held palmsized digital cameras. Four locked-down cameras shot the house
from its cardinal directions, providing x- and y-references for the shaky images from the handhelds.