"William Gibson, Bruce Sterling "The difference engine"" - читать интересную книгу автора

Sybil put the thing away, gently but quickly, as if it were a live
crab. In the other pocket she found his card-case, red morocco leather;
inside were business cards, cartes-de-visite with his Engine-stippled
portrait, a London train timetable.
And an engraved slip of stiff creamy parchment, first-class passage on
the Newcomen, out of Dover.
"You'll need two tickets, then," she hesitated, "if you really mean to
take me."
Mick nodded, conceding the point. "And another for the train from
Cherbourg, too. And nothing simpler. I can wire for tickets, downstairs at
the lobby desk."
Sybil shivered again, and wrapped the coat closer. Mick laughed at her.
"Don't give me that vinegar phiz. You're still thinking like a dollymop;
stop it. Start thinking flash, or you'll be of no use to me. You're Mick's
gal now--a high-flyer."
She spoke slowly, reluctantly. "I've never been with any man who knew I
was Sybil Gerard." That was a lie, of course--there was Egremont, the man
who had mined her. Charles Egremont had known very well who she was. But
Egremont no longer mattered--he lived in a different world, now, with his
po-faced respectable wife, and his respectable children, and his
respectable seat in Parliament.
And Sybil hadn't been dollymopping, with Egremont. Not exactly, anyway.
A matter of degree . . .
She could tell that Mick was pleased at the lie she'd told him. It had
flattered him.
Mick opened a gleaming cigar-case, extracted a cheroot, and lit it in
the oily flare of a repeating match, filling the room with the candied
smell of cherry tobacco.
"So now you feel a bit shy with me, do you?" he said at last. "Well, I
prefer it that way. What I know, that gives me a bit more grip on you,
don't it, than mere tin."
His eyes narrowed. "It's what a cove knows that counts, ain't it,
Sybil? More than land or money, more than birth. Information. Very flash."
Sybil felt a moment of hatred for him, for his ease and confidence.
Pure resentment, sharp and primal, but she crushed her feelings down. The
hatred wavered, losing its purity, turning to shame. She did hate him--but
only because he truly knew her. He knew how far Sybil Gerard had fallen,
that she had been an educated girl, with airs and graces, as good as any
gentry girl, once.
From the days of her father's fame, from her girlhood, Sybil could
remember Mick Radley's like. She knew the kind of boy that he had been.
Ragged angry factory-boys, penny-a-score, who would crowd her father after
his torchlight speeches, and do whatever he commanded. Rip up railroad
tracks, kick the boiler-plugs out of spinning jennies, lay policemen's
helmets by his feet. She and her father had fled from town to town, often
by night, living in cellars, attics, anonymous rooms-to-let, hiding from
the Rad police and the daggers of other conspirators. And sometimes, when
his own wild speeches had filled him with a burning elation, her father
would embrace her and soberly promise her the world. She would live like
gentry in a green and quiet England, when King Steam was wrecked. When