"David Wingrove - Assimilation(1)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wingrove David)

The aide hesitated. Already the Governor's attention was wandering;
returning to the match outside; to the steady accumulation of runs, the
erratic taking of wickets. "It came in from the dark regions. From one of
the uncolonised worlds."
"Ah..." The Governor nodded, for a moment watching the flight of the ball,
the trajectory of the bat, the scurrying of fielders dressed in perfect
whites. For a moment longer he was silent, and then he turned back.
"And the trader himself? Is it safe for me to see him?"
The aide laughed politely. "Forgive me, sir, but as you'll see, he's built
like a child. So small. And his muscles..." The aide shook his head
dismissively. "No, sir. He's no threat."
"Good." And the Governor sat back, steepling his long fingers, returning
his attention to the cricket match. "Good... Then you'd best send him in."


The Trader stood in the doorway a moment, looking about him, taking it all
in. A strange light glinted briefly in his violet eyes, then went out.
Giving a rough bow to the one whom called himself George, he moved towards
the desk, conscious of the Governor rising to greet him.
Not for the first time since he had landed, he had an oppressive sense of
his own physical smallness. Standing, the Governor was twice his height,
his ungainly, straight figure bent slightly forward, his long, masked face
inclined towards him, its painted expression of cultivated boredom barely
distinguishable from that of his aide's.
"Please come in, Mister..."
"Ka-Ta," the Trader answered, ignoring the proffered hand; conscious of
how raw and guttural his voice sounded beside the polished tones of the
Governor's.
"Well, Mister Carter, it's jolly nice to meet you. I understand that you
wish to apply for a trading licence."
For a moment he simply stared back at the Governor, noting his
brilliantined green hair, the white gloves that masked his over-long
fingers, the heavily-reinforced stays at each side of his black tailcoat.
Yes, it was just as they'd thought. Exactly as they'd expected.
He turned, looking past the Governor at the huge French windows and the
green beyond. Out there, to one side of the playing field, in the shade of
a majestic oak, sat one of their ships, matt black and massive, like a
giant beetle.
The Governor turned, following his gaze. "Do you like cricket, Mister
Carter, or don't they play it on your world?"
Cricket... The Trader turned abruptly, the sight of all that open, sunlit
space making him feel queasy despite the drugs.
"I come to trade," he said, ignoring the Governor's questions. "You wish
to see my goods?"
The Governor was still looking out at the green, a sudden tenseness to his
stance. Something was happening out there. "Damn," he said, after a
moment. "Just as they were doing so well. Still, Collingwood's not a bad
fellow with the old willow. And there's a good hour before tea." He turned
back. "Now what were you saying?"
"These," the Trader said, holding out one hand, palm up, displaying the