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

something of the Lyonesse in the shape of her eyes, and I could tell by looking in the mirror how much of
my Algonquin ancestry showed through lightened skin. But no one I knew, apart from the Zealot, went to
the trouble of reversing the biomod entirely and restoring his body to its former state.
Why he did it was anyone's guess. I thought privately that he enjoyed being different. In his line of
business, looking weird--and even a touch sinister--was good advertising.
"Courtney Welles," he said, swivelling to face me. "How's your credit?"
"Much recovered, thanks, from my last visit." I took off my hat and dropped it on a chair.
"Glad to hear it." The Zealot--whose real name had long been expunged from Civil files--smiled. His
teeth didn't glitter in the gloomy light, and somehow that was worse than if they did. "How can I help
you?"
"Information," I said, stating the obvious. That was his speciality. "I'm trying to trace someone."
"The suicide?" he asked.
I didn't act surprised, and, in truth, I wasn't. Not really. The Zealot always seemed to know everything
that happened in the city. "What can you tell me about him?"
"More than you want to know, I imagine. For a price."
"How much?"
He quoted a figure that made my pulse race. The somewhat disreputable nature of my profession almost
demanded that I use packers to ferret information, but the wage kept me honest, more often than not. I
bit down on the naive hope that he might give it to me on credit. "Another time, maybe. When I win the
lottery. What I need now is a bank trace."
"Which bank?"
"United."
"And whose account?"
"Mine."
The Zealot raised an eyebrow. "An expensive way to obtain a statement."
"I've received three unlabelled deposits in the last ten days. I need to know who they came from. Can
you tell me that?"
"Of course." The Zealot looked disappointed. "Is that all?"
"No. I also need the autopsy report on the suicide. The coroner's office has had the body for a few hours
now. The findings must be due soon."
"True." He folded two slender hands on his lap. "I can obtain this for you, although it will be difficult."
I winced. 'Difficult', when uttered by the Zealot, usually meant 'expensive'. "How difficult?"
"Two thousand dollars--plus the bank statement, say two and a half."
"Deal." The price was high, but less than I'd expected. "How soon?"
"It'll be in your 'frame tonight."
"Thanks." I nodded. "You're a good man."
We exchanged pleasantries and idle gossip for a few minutes once the deal was done. The Zealot
maintained a closer relationship with his customers than many of the other packers in the city, and I
always enjoyed talking to him, if only on the off-chance he might let something juicy slip.
On this occasion, he told me that one of the interstellar colonies had intercepted an unidentified probe out
in deep space, some months back. The rumour mills were speculating about the possibility of alien
contact, but no one had confirmed or denied anything. The probe itself, and its discoverers, had
themselves disappeared, leaving a vast info-void waiting to be filled. In lieu of facts, speculations were
becoming wild.
None of this, of course, had been reported in the papers and b-boards of C20. Way outside our
jurisdiction. It intrigued me, though, and started me thinking. My opinion leaned towards space-junk left
behind by humans on one of our many surges outward from the System, but the Zealot disagreed.
"You don't find junk by accident in deep space," he said. "You either run over it, and die in the process,
or go out looking for it. So it can't be junk."
"Or aliens either," I added. "Unless they came looking for us."