"Joe Haldeman - The Coming" - читать интересную книгу автора (Haldeman Joe)

really don't have the faintest idea. Of course we can't rule out the possibility of a hoax. Not to accuse
your Mr. Bell." He glanced off-camera and back. "Mrs. Bell, Dr. Bell. Excuse us. We really do have to
discuss this." He walked away, the camera starting to track the back of his head, and then cutting to the
moonscape in the holo window behind where he'd been standing.
"Tell you what, Mr. Bell. I say it's a hoax. If I'm right, you owe me a hundred bucks. If I'm wrong ...
you and me gotta trade jobs for a day."
"What, you can play the cello?"
"Maybe. Never tried."
Norman laughed. "It's tempting, but I'll pass. Never was much of a pastry chef." He pointed. "Oh,
yeah. Rory wanted a slice of spanakopita."
"Sure thing. Fresh this morning."
A small dark man came in and let the door slam behind him. He was in formal evening wear and
looked as if he'd been up all night. "¿Que pasa, Professor?"
"Not much," Norman said. The man had called him Professor ever since he found out his wife
outranked him. "Invasion from outer space."
"Yeah, right. Lay ya odds."
"Better talk to Nick about that. Thanks." Norman took the spinach pie, paid, and left.

Willy Joe
"What the hell he's talkin' about?" Him and Nick probably been in the back room, coupla fuckin'
mariposas, everybody knows about Greeks, and the musicians, hell, do anything. Take turns down the ol'
dirt track. Otherwise why's he always here in the morning? Half the time, anyhow.
"They got some weird radio thing at the observatory. Had his old lady on the news."
"It's always somethin', ain't it?"
"Siempre." Nick brought out a small cup of strong coffee, a sausage pastry, and a glass of retsina
wine. He set them down in front of Willy Joe with a neatly folded five-hundred-dollar bill under the
saucer. "So how's business?"
Willy Joe palmed the bill and took a sip of coffee. "Always good, first of the month. Runnin' me
ragged, though."
"Pobrecito," Nick muttered as he walked back to the pastry counter.
"So what's that mean?" he snapped. "What the fuck you mean by that?"
"Just an expression."
"Yeah, I know what it means. You watch your fuckin' mouth." Willy Joe shifted, slumping back in
the chair. The new belt holster was uncomfortable in the small of his back. He didn't have to carry a gun
on these collection rounds, anyhow. Who'd fuck with him? Not to mention Bobby the Bad and Solo out
in the car.
Got this fuckin' town by the nose, now the new mayor's in. Bought an' paid for before the
Commission election back in '40. The bitch last year was hard to handle. She found out what it was to
push on Willy Joe, though. Might as well piss in the sea, bitch. Nothin's gonna change.
He unfolded his list and checked off the Athens. It was the last twenty-four-hour joint; the others
wouldn't be open for a while. He took the phone wand out of his pocket and said, "Car."
"Solo here."
"Look, we're ahead. You guys go do what you want till quarter to nine. Make it nine, outside
Mario's." He put his thumb on the hang-up button while he drained the retsina. "Sanchez."
"Buenos."
"Willy Joe. Where you at?"
"Second and North Main, like you said."
"Okay; you try and keep up with Solo. Black and red Westing-house limo pullin' out from the
Athens."
"No problema if he stays in town." Sanchez was on a bicycle. With the ATC going in the morning,