"Sean Williams - The Perfect Gun" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Sean)

"The ID?" I prompted.
"Dinner?" she shot back.
I made a show of reluctance. "An hour is all I can give you. I've got work to do, you know."
"My place?"
"Uh-uh. Not after last time."
"Ganesha's, then."
"Done." I stood and offered her my arm. "Let's go."
The transition from sterile foyer to city street was shocking, as always. Inside had been cool, calm and
encapsulated, whereas outside reeked of movement, emotions and compromise, circa 1980. Cars
honked, voices called, music blared; lights flashed, signs blinked, eyes stared and looked away. Quite a
contrast to the pastel work-stations and soothing silence of Marilyn's preferred work-place.
Which is why, I guess, we'd never made a big deal out of being together. In the untogether sense of the
word.
Ganesha's Indian Restaurant offered everything from noodles to vat-grown elephant. I chose something
spicy and fairly conservative; Marilyn walked the path of terminal gourmet junkie, as she always did. But
for recom dieting drugs and regular exercise, she'd have weighed four hundred pounds. Luckily, her
idiom allowed the sort of choice less-modern women had been denied.
We flirted amiably over our main course, until I prompted again:
"The ID, Marilyn?"
"Oh, yeah." She nudged a strand of noodle on its way down with one well-manicured finger. "I did what
you asked. Don't I always?"
"You're a doll."
"I'm a what?" She rolled her eyes. "Kill the act and speak to me like a human being or you can do your
own damned research."
I sighed and mentally shrugged out of the overcoat. "All right. You've got yourself a--I mean, you have
my full agreement on that. Now tell me what you found."
She primped for a moment, enjoying the small victory, then said: "Nothing. The sequence from the
sample isn't in the Civil records."
"None of them?"
"Not one. Whoever this guy is, or was, the city doesn't know him."
"But that's impossible, isn't it? I mean, to get here you have to check in at least twice, and there's no way
to fake a passport these days. Is there?"
She shook her head. "There isn't. Take my word for it."
"Well, then."
"But the test was clear. His ID isn't registered."
I stirred the remainder of my meal. "You only checked Civil Records. What about Commercial?"
"I didn't look."
"Why not?"
"Why should I? Who is this guy? Some sort of construct?" She started to look curious, then, which I
didn't like. "Are you tracing industrial espionage?"
I shook my head, although part of me was beginning to wonder. "Would you check Commercial for me?"
"I don't know, Court. It is illegal, after all."
"Technically, yes. I won't tell if you won't. Please?"
"Okay, okay. But I'll need to retype the tissue. Commercial uses different techniques to Civil Records.
Civil converts the sample to messenger RNA, thereby mapping the coding exons only, whereas
Commercial tracks the entire primary transcript, introns and all --"
"Right." I waved her silent; the technical stuff leaves me cold. "I get the picture; I owe you a big favour.
I'll pay you back one day, I promise."
She raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
At least I had the good grace to look embarrassed; she understood me better than the Dep ever did.