"George Aleg Effinger - When Gravity Fails" - читать интересную книгу автора (Effinger George Alec)

“Its nothing,” I said. “I don’t like to see these people with their plug-in personality
modules bothering anybody but another moddy.”

The second woman looked bewildered. “A moddy, young man?” Like they didn’t have
them wherever she came from.

“Yeah. He’s wearing a James Bond module. Thinks he’s James Bond. He’ll be pulling
that trick all night, until someone raps him down and pops the moddy out of his head.
That’s what he deserves. He may be wearing Allah-only-knows-what daddies, too.” I saw
the bewildered look again, so I went on. “Daddy is what we call an add-on. A daddy gives
you temporary knowledge. Say you chip in a Swedish-language daddy; then you
understand Swedish until you pop it out. Shopkeepers, lawyers, and other con men all
use daddies.”

The two women blinked at me, as if they were still deciding if all that could be true.
“Plugging right into the brain?” said the second woman. “That’s horrifying.”

“Where are you from?” I asked.

They glanced at each other. “The People’s Republic of Lorraine,” said the first woman.
That confirmed it: they probably had never seen a moddy-driven fool before. “If you
ladies wouldn’t mind a piece of advice,” I said, “I really think you’re in the wrong
neighborhood. You’re definitely in the wrong bar.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the second woman. They fluttered and squawked, scooping up
their packages and bags, leaving behind their unfinished drinks, and hurried out the
door. I hope they got out of the Budayeen all right.

Chiri was working behind the bar alone that night. I liked her; we’d been friends a long
time. She was a tall, formidable woman, her black skin tattooed in the geometric designs
of raised scars worn by her distant ancestors. When she smiled—which she didn’t do
very often—her teeth flashed disturbingly white, disturbing because she’d had her
canines filed to sharp points. Traditional among cannibals, you know. When a stranger
came into the club, her eyes were shrewd and black, as empty of interest as two bullet
holes in the wall. When she saw me, though, she shot me that wide welcoming grin.
“Jambo!” she cried. I leaned across the narrow bar and gave her a quick kiss on her
patterned cheek.

“What’s going on, Chiri?” I said.

“Njema.” she said in Swahili, just being polite. She shook her head. “Nothing, nothing,


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When Gravity Fails

same goddamn boring job.”

I nodded. Not much changes on the Street; only the faces. In the club were twelve
customers and six girls. I knew four of the girls, the other two were new. They might stay