"Нейл Стефенсон. Snow Crash (Снежная лавина, англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

"Yvonne Thomas?"

"Whatsit stand for?"
"Nothing?'
Actually, it stands for Yours Truly, but if they can't figure that out,
fuck 'em.
"You can't afford it," the first MetaCop says. "You're going up against
TMAWH here."
"I don't have to officially get off. I could just escape."
"This is a class Unit. We don't support escapes," the first MetaCop
says.
"Tell you what," the second one says. "You pay us a trillion bucks and
we'll take you to a Hoosegow. Then you can bargain with them."
"Half a trillion," Y.T. says.
"Seven hundred and fifty billion," the MetaCop says. "Final. Shit,
you're wearing cuffs, you can't be bargaining with us."
Y.T. unzips a pocket on the thigh of her coverall, pulls out the card
with her clean hand, runs it through a slot on the back of the front seat,
puts it back in her pocket.


____________ The Hoosegow looks like a nice new one. Y.T. has seen
hotels that were worse places to sleep. Its logo sign, a
NEAL STEPHENSON
47
saguaro cactus with a black cowboy hat resting on top of it at a jaunty
angle, is brand-new and clean.

THE HOOSEGOW
Premium incarceration and restraint services
We welcome busloadsl

There are a couple of other MetaCop cars in the lot, and an Enforcer
paddybus parked across the back, taking up ten consecutive spaces. This
draws much attention from the MetaCops. The Enforcers are to the MetaCops
what the Delta Force is to the Peace Corps.
"One to check in," says the second MetaCop. They are standing in the
reception area. The walls are lined with illuminated signs, each one bearing
the image of some Old West desperado. Annie Oakley stares down blankly at
Y.T., providing a role model. The check-in counter is faux rustic; the
employees all wear cowboy hats and five-pointed stars with their names
embossed on them. In back is a door made of hokey, old-fashioned iron bars.
Once you got through there, it would look like an operating room. A whole
line of little cells, curvy and white like prefab shower stalls-in fact,
they double as shower stalls, you bathe in the middle of the room. Bright
lights that turn themselves off at eleven o'clock. Coin-operated TV. Private
phone line. Y.T. can hardly wait.
The cowboy behind the desk aims a scanner at Y.T., zaps her bar code.
Hundreds of pages about Y.T.'s personal life zoom up on a graphics screen.