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The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) :: Bester Alfred
Страница: 100 из 164The roar of fireworksinside the Stairs, and the clatter of debris clashing on the Galleria roof, were deafening as Foyle and Robin Wednesbury climbed down from the carnival in the Borghese Palace.
They were still in costume: Foyle in the livid crimson-and-black tights and doublet of Cesare Borgia, Robin wearing the silver-encrusted gown of Lucrezia Borgia. They wore grotesque velvet masks. The contrast between their Renaissance costumes and the modern clothes around them brought forth jeers and catcalls. Even the Lobos who frequented the Spanish Stairs, the unfortunate habitual criminals who had had a quarter of their brains burned out by prefrontal lobotomy, were aroused from their dreary apathy to stare. The mob seethed around the couple as they descended the Galleria.
«Poggi,» Foyle called quietly. «Angelo Poggi?»
A bawd bellowed anatomical adjurations at him.
«Poggi? Angelo Poggi?» Foyle was impassive. «I'm told he can be found on the Stairs at night. Angelo Poggi?»
A whore maligned his mother.
«Angelo Poggi? Ten credits to anyone who brings me to him.»
Foyle was ringed with extended hands, some filthy, some scented, all greedy. He shook his head. «Show me, first..»
Roman rage crackled around him.
«Poggi? Angelo Poggi?»
After six weeks of loitering on the Spanish Stairs, Captain Peter Y''ang Yeovil at last heard the words he had hoped to heart Six weeks of tedious assumption of the identity of one Angelo Poggi, chef's assistant off the 'Vorga,' long dead, was finally paying off. It had been a gamble, first risked when Intelligence had brought the news to Captain Y'ang-Yeovil that someone was making cautious inquiries about the crew of the Presteign «Vorga,» and paying heavily for information.
«It's a long shot,» Y'ang-Yeovil had said, «But Gully Foyle, AS-i 28/127:
oo6, did make that lunatic attempt to blow up 'Vorga.' And twenty pounds of PyrE is worth a long shot.»
Now he waddled up the stairs toward the man in the Renaissance costume and mask. He had put on forty pounds weight with glandular shots. He had darkened his complexion with diet manipulation. His features, never of an, Oriental cast but cut more along the hawklike lines of the ancient American Indian, easily fell into an unreliable pattern with a little muscular control!
The Intelligence man waddled up the Spanish Stairs, a gross cook with a~, larcenous countenance. He extended a package of soiled envelopes toward Foyle.
They were still in costume: Foyle in the livid crimson-and-black tights and doublet of Cesare Borgia, Robin wearing the silver-encrusted gown of Lucrezia Borgia. They wore grotesque velvet masks. The contrast between their Renaissance costumes and the modern clothes around them brought forth jeers and catcalls. Even the Lobos who frequented the Spanish Stairs, the unfortunate habitual criminals who had had a quarter of their brains burned out by prefrontal lobotomy, were aroused from their dreary apathy to stare. The mob seethed around the couple as they descended the Galleria.
«Poggi,» Foyle called quietly. «Angelo Poggi?»
A bawd bellowed anatomical adjurations at him.
«Poggi? Angelo Poggi?» Foyle was impassive. «I'm told he can be found on the Stairs at night. Angelo Poggi?»
A whore maligned his mother.
«Angelo Poggi? Ten credits to anyone who brings me to him.»
Foyle was ringed with extended hands, some filthy, some scented, all greedy. He shook his head. «Show me, first..»
Roman rage crackled around him.
«Poggi? Angelo Poggi?»
After six weeks of loitering on the Spanish Stairs, Captain Peter Y''ang Yeovil at last heard the words he had hoped to heart Six weeks of tedious assumption of the identity of one Angelo Poggi, chef's assistant off the 'Vorga,' long dead, was finally paying off. It had been a gamble, first risked when Intelligence had brought the news to Captain Y'ang-Yeovil that someone was making cautious inquiries about the crew of the Presteign «Vorga,» and paying heavily for information.
«It's a long shot,» Y'ang-Yeovil had said, «But Gully Foyle, AS-i 28/127:
oo6, did make that lunatic attempt to blow up 'Vorga.' And twenty pounds of PyrE is worth a long shot.»
Now he waddled up the stairs toward the man in the Renaissance costume and mask. He had put on forty pounds weight with glandular shots. He had darkened his complexion with diet manipulation. His features, never of an, Oriental cast but cut more along the hawklike lines of the ancient American Indian, easily fell into an unreliable pattern with a little muscular control!
The Intelligence man waddled up the Spanish Stairs, a gross cook with a~, larcenous countenance. He extended a package of soiled envelopes toward Foyle.