JК
Ribofunk :: Филиппо Пол Ди
Страница: 57 из 156A metro dirty-harry in his fan-lifter buzzed me, but I transmitted a priority code that made him veer off. This case looked like it was going to be wrapped up sooner than I could have hoped.
At the Copley I went straight to the registration console. It was actually being manned by a human, but that's just the Copley's policy: no splices on their staff, and all the ones owned by guests kept discreetly out of sight (except, of course, for bodyguards). I had to check Hamster at the stable.
The clerk was a piebald black man wearing a topknot laced with gold wire. I flashed him my card. "Mass Pee Eye." He blinked twice, without expression. I looked at my own ID. The stupid cab had left Siouxsie Sexcrime uppermost when it had read the card. I flexed the plaz back to the right creds.
"Yes, sir, how may I help you?"
Slipping my left hand into my vest pocket, I palmed the boot. "Do you have a guest named Jurgen von Bulow?"
The clerk ran a mental eidetic. "He just checked out this morning, sir."
Bugshit! "Let me guess. He broke the bank, wired his winnings to Paraguay, and caught a suborb south."
"No sir, not quite. Mister von Bulow lost heavily. In fact, had we not taken the precaution of pre-debiting his proxy-as we do with anyone who intends to play the games-he would not have had enough to pay his bill. As it was, he left here very much down on his luck. As I might phrase it, were I off-duty, 'His lily-white ass was dragging.' "
That didn't make sense. Either the casino games were rigged worse than a Fourth-World election, or the stolen trope was junkbond. Neither alternative seemed likely.
"Did he happen to mention his plans?"
"No, sir, he did not."
Dead end. I turned ruefully away.
Something bumped my ankles.
I looked down.
It was Flipper.
Flipper was a fishboy I knew from around town. He was a Fuser, a member of a sect that sought personally to atone for the extermination of the dolphins. (They claimed humanity's guilt was not diminished by the subsequent restocking of the seas.) Flipper's arms had been melded to his torso, his legs fused shut from toes to crotch. He wore a slick grey suit that handled bodily functions and made him look like a sleek torpedo. He rode a little wheeled dolly that ran on fuel cells.
"Hey, Flip, what's metabolizing?"
"Not much. But I heard what you were asking the clerk just now."
"Why don't we go outside?"
I walked– and Flipper rolled-out the Copley. On the busy sidewalk, no one paid any attention to us.
At the Copley I went straight to the registration console. It was actually being manned by a human, but that's just the Copley's policy: no splices on their staff, and all the ones owned by guests kept discreetly out of sight (except, of course, for bodyguards). I had to check Hamster at the stable.
The clerk was a piebald black man wearing a topknot laced with gold wire. I flashed him my card. "Mass Pee Eye." He blinked twice, without expression. I looked at my own ID. The stupid cab had left Siouxsie Sexcrime uppermost when it had read the card. I flexed the plaz back to the right creds.
"Yes, sir, how may I help you?"
Slipping my left hand into my vest pocket, I palmed the boot. "Do you have a guest named Jurgen von Bulow?"
The clerk ran a mental eidetic. "He just checked out this morning, sir."
Bugshit! "Let me guess. He broke the bank, wired his winnings to Paraguay, and caught a suborb south."
"No sir, not quite. Mister von Bulow lost heavily. In fact, had we not taken the precaution of pre-debiting his proxy-as we do with anyone who intends to play the games-he would not have had enough to pay his bill. As it was, he left here very much down on his luck. As I might phrase it, were I off-duty, 'His lily-white ass was dragging.' "
That didn't make sense. Either the casino games were rigged worse than a Fourth-World election, or the stolen trope was junkbond. Neither alternative seemed likely.
"Did he happen to mention his plans?"
"No, sir, he did not."
Dead end. I turned ruefully away.
Something bumped my ankles.
I looked down.
It was Flipper.
Flipper was a fishboy I knew from around town. He was a Fuser, a member of a sect that sought personally to atone for the extermination of the dolphins. (They claimed humanity's guilt was not diminished by the subsequent restocking of the seas.) Flipper's arms had been melded to his torso, his legs fused shut from toes to crotch. He wore a slick grey suit that handled bodily functions and made him look like a sleek torpedo. He rode a little wheeled dolly that ran on fuel cells.
"Hey, Flip, what's metabolizing?"
"Not much. But I heard what you were asking the clerk just now."
"Why don't we go outside?"
I walked– and Flipper rolled-out the Copley. On the busy sidewalk, no one paid any attention to us.