"Timothy Zahn - Night Train to Rigel" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zahn Timothy)

to the other drudge waiting below. The second Spider accepted the cylinder and
passed up one of its own, which the first then replaced in the box.
Deceptively compact, those cylinders were packed with the most current news
from around the galaxy, along with private electronic messages and encrypted
data of all sorts.
Passengers, cargo, and mail, the ultimate hat trick of any civilization. All
of it running via the Quadrail.
All of it under the control of the Spiders.
A few minutes later the outward flow of passengers ended, and the line of
conductors took a multilegged step forward. "All aboard Trans-Galactic
Quadrail 339216, to New Tigris, Yandro, the Jurian Collective, the Cimmal
Republic, and intermediate transfer nodes," they announced in unison,
verbalizing the information that was also being given by a multilanguage
holodisplay suspended over the train. "Departure in twenty-three minutes."
The crowd surged forward as the Spiders repeated the announcement in Juric and
Mahee, rather a waste of time since there weren't any Juriani or Cimmaheem
waiting for this particular Quadrail. But procedure was procedure, as I'd
learned during my years of government service, and not to be trifled with
merely because it didn't happen to make sense. Circling around the back of the
crowd, I headed for Car Fifteen, the last one before the baggage car.
My ticket had come edged in copper, which had already indicated it was one of
the lower-class seats. But it wasn't until I climbed through the door and
stepped past a stack of safety-webbed cargo crates into the aisle that I
realized just how far down the food chain I actually was. Car Fifteen was a
hybrid: basically a baggage carrier, stacked three-deep on both sides with
secured cargo crates, with a single column of thirty seats shoehorned like an
afterthought between the aisle and the wall of boxes to the right.
A half dozen non humans were already seated: Cimmaheem, Juriani, and a lone
Bellido, none of them paying any attention to me as I worked my way down the
aisle. The Juriani, looking like upright iguanas with hawk beaks and
three-toed clawed feet, had the unpolished scales of commoners, while the
pear-shaped Cimmaheem wore their shaggy yarnlike hair loose instead of in the
elaborate braids of the higher social classes.
I paid particular attention to the Bellido as I approached him, checking for
the prominently displayed shoulder holsters and handguns that typically
conveyed status in their culture. Actual weapons weren't allowed inside the
Tube, but the Bellidos had adapted to the Spiders' rules by replacing their
real guns with soft plastic imitations when they traveled.
To me, the aliens always came off looking rather ridiculous, like
tiger-striped, chipmunk-faced children playing soldier with toy guns. Given
that outside the Quadrail their guns were real, I'd made it a point to keep
such opinions to myself.
But this particular Bellido's shoulders were unadorned, which was again pretty
much as I'd expected. Interstellar steerage, the whole lot of us. Whoever my
unknown benefactor was, he was apparently pretty tight with a dollar.
Still, this car would get me to Yandro as fast as the first-class seats up
front. And for once, at least, I wouldn't have to worry about a seatmate of
excessive with or questionable personal hygiene.
And then, as I passed the Bellido, he gave me a look.
It wasn't much of a look, as looks go: a casual flick upward of his eyes, and