"Stephen Goldin - Scavenger Hunt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goldin Stephen)

excluding aliens, of course. But who would ever have believed an android
could come up with enough money to enter?"

"Where did it get the money?"

"All the androids in the galaxy apparently contributed to pay its fee and
buy it a ship. It's like a cause or something with them—some nonsense
about trying to prove their equality with human beings."

Tyla's eyes narrowed. "Do you think it stands much of a chance?"

"How would I know, dear? I'm certainly not very good at guessing about
these sorts of things. But all the people I've talked to say there isn't much
chance of its winning. It only has an old, third-hand ship and a robot
crew, because no human being would want to work for an android and no
other androids are available with sufficient space training. No, thank the
Vacuum it doesn't stand a chance of winning. But just the thought of its
being in our Hunt is disgraceful. I can assure you that the entrance Rules
will have been changed by the next time."

Tyla nodded. The android's entry into the Hunt would tend to cheapen
its value somewhat, but the tradition of the Hunt was so glorious that the
damage would be minimal. She was not worried about the android as
competition, either—not if it only had a battered old ship and robots as a
crew. Similarly, most of the other entrants would be no threat. They had
entered solely because a failure to do so would have meant loss of status,
and no one was willing to undergo that penalty. They would pursue the
Hunt lackadaisically, perhaps gather a few of the objects on their list and
lose gracefully, later telling exciting anecdotes about how they might have
won if it had not been for such-and-such unfortunate accident. There was
only one person she was really worried about, only one who took the Hunt
as more than just a game.

"Hello, Tyla," said a voice from behind her, and she recognized the
sound of the enemy.

"Hello, Master Jusser," she said. "I was just thinking about you." Then
she turned around to face the man who had addressed her.

Ambic Jusser looked the part he played—every inch a debonair,
sophisticated lady-killer. Broad-shouldered, he stood a full two meters tall
and had a handsome, craggy face with a deeply space-tanned complexion.
His mustache and goatee were sprinkled with silver-colored dust; the
shaved strip down the center of his skull was three centimeters wide and
lavishly tattooed by the famous Corinarr himself. Men's fashion dictated
bright, alluring colors to attract the female eye, and Ambic Jusser was
nothing if not fashionable. His shirt was smooth, semi-transparent
plastisilk, swirling in blues and reds and yellows. The design at first glance
might have seemed haphazard, but it was calculated to direct the eye
around his magnificent frame and then downward toward the waist. His