"Roger Zelazny - The Doors of His Face The Lamps of His Mouth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zelazny Roger)

I threw a Status Blue switch and he matched it. The light went on.

The winch unlocked. I aimed out over the waters, extended an arm, and
fired a cast.

"Clean one," he commented.

"Status Red. Call strike." I threw a switch.

"Status Red."

The baitman would be on his way with this, to make the barbs tempting.

It's not exactly a fishhook. The cables bear hollow tubes; the tubes
convey enough dope for an army of hopheads; Ikky takes the bait, dandled
before him by remote control, and the fisherman rams the barbs home.

My hands moved over the console, making the necessary adjustments. I
checked the narco-tank reading. Empty. Good, they hadn't been filled yet. I
thumbed the inject button.

"In the gullet," Mike murmured.

I released the cables. I played the beast imagined. I let him run,
swinging the winch to simulate his sweep.

I had the air conditioner on and my shirt off and it was still
uncomfortably hot, which is how I knew that morning had gone over into noon.
I was dimly aware of the arrivals and departures of the hoppers. Some of the
crew sat in the "shade" of the doors I had left open, watching the
operation. I didn't see Jean arrive or I would have ended the session and
gotten below.

She broke my concentration by slamming the door hard enough to shake
the bond.

"Mind telling me who authorized you to bring up the Slider?" she asked.

"No one," I replied. "I'll take it below now."

"Just move aside."

I did, and she took my seat. She was wearing brown slacks and a baggy
shirt and she had her hair pulled back in a practical manner. Her cheeks
were flushed, but not necessarily from the heat. She attacked the panel with
a nearly amusing intensity that I found disquieting.


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