"Joe Haldeman - Buying Time" - читать интересную книгу автора (Haldeman Joe)

DALLAS
The cabby apologized to us for the noise. Before the rotor got up to speed, it made a deafening clatter.
Once we were over the water it wasn't too bad.
He read back the address that he'd punched into the dash. "On the water, eh, mates?"
"I don't know. We've never been there." I'd picked up my night shift bodyguard, Merle Browning, an
hour early, rather than have him find his own way to the party.
"Yeah," Merle said. "Gotta be on the water." He was an American but knew Sydney like a native. "She's
got some money, livin' there."
"She a Stileman?"
"Don't know," I said quickly. Merle shot me a sleepy look.
"You guys?" asked the cabby.
"Sure, " Merle said. "Couldn't find the keys to the Mercedes."
"Right," he said broadly, and shifted into overdrive. We tilted forward slightly and lifted another half
meter off the water, slowly weaving around sailboats. The Opera House and skyline receded.
It was going to be interesting, though probably not as life-and-death as Lamont Randolph had made it
sound initially. When I pressed him for details about the brain death emergency, he had to admit that he
didn't have any; it was essentially a rumor he thought he could use to "get me interested." Not necessary,
really. I would go anywhere in the world, three worlds and fifty rocks, to see Maria again.
"I got naught against 'em," the driver said. "I mean, you or me'd do the same, we had the money. No?"
"Can't take it with you, " I said.
"Pre-zackly." He frowned, tapped the dash compass, steered a little to the right. "I wouldn't be so bloody
stuck up about it, though. You know, most of 'em? God's gift."
"You got that right," Merle said, with a little too much sincerity.



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 BUYING TIME - Joe Haldeman


The cabby tapped the compass again. "Goddamn computer." He reached under the dash and flicked a
switch. "This is fixed fare anyhow. Swing by the free beach?"
"Anytime," Merle said. That was the nude beach on the southwest side of the Harbour. Somewhat out of
the way. But of course I didn't know that.
I watched the water while the driver and Merle exchanged obvious comments. Immortality did
complicate your sex life. Merle could joke about "losing track." After a hundred or so years, though, it
was no joke. You meet a woman socially and, more often than not, the first moment is a mutual hear-the-
wheels-turning, did-we-or-didn't-we exercise in sorting memories. Then perhaps a conspiratorial wink or
squeeze—"Majorca, back in '23, wasn't it?"—or a carefully neutral friendliness while the wheels keep
turning.
I was mentally reviewing the list of women I'd be likely to meet at Claudia's party—I do try to keep the
past fifteen or twenty years' worth straight, anyhow—when I realized Merle had said something.
"Sorry?"
"Ever come down to the beach here?"
"No … always mean to. Happy hunting ground."
Cabby shook his head. "Ah. All look an' no touch. Every slit brings 'er own cob, she does."
"Cob" was an oddly direct word in that context, but I knew what he meant. We were getting close