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

"You want me for local coloring, gal. It'll look nice on the feature
page and all that. But clear this--If anyone gets you an Ikky, it'll be me.
I promise."



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I stood in the empty Square. The foggy towers of Lifeline shared their
mists.

Shoreline a couple eras ago, the western slope above Lifeline stretches
as far as forty miles inland in some places. Its angle of rising is not a
great one, but it achieves an elevation of several thousand feet before it
meets the mountain range which separates us from the Highlands. About four
miles inland and five hundred feet higher than Lifeline are set most of the
surface airstrips and privately owned hangars. Hangar Sixteen houses Cal's
Contract Cab, hop service, shore to ship. I do not like Cal, but he wasn't
around when I climbed from the bus and waved to a mechanic.

Two of the hoppers tugged at the concrete, impatient beneath flywing
haloes. The one on which Steve was working belched deep within its barrel
carburetor and shuttered spasmodically.

"Bellyache?" I inquired.

"Yeah, gas pains and heartburn."

He twisted setscrews until it settled into an even keening, and turned
to me.

"You're for out?"

I nodded.

"Tensquare. Cosmetics. Monsters. Stuff like that."

He blinked into the beacons and wiped his freckles. The temperature was
about twenty, but the big overhead spots served a double purpose.

"Luharich," he muttered. "Then you _are_ the one. There's some people
want to see you."

"What about?"

"Cameras. Microphones. Stuff like that."

"I'd better stow my gear. Which one am I riding?"