"Nancy Kress - Stinger" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kress Nancy)

and no “proud to present to you the next president
of the United States” in that too-insistent,
too-confident way that some supporters had. That
wouldn’t have played well, not in this particular
section of Manhattan. Premature. Larson had an
ear for these things.
Although maybe, he thought, as he watched
Reading launch into his speech, it wouldn’t have
mattered after all. Damn, but Reading was good.
The candidate stood on the wooden grade-school
stage, under that faded school assembly flag, as if
the place were the Oval Office. He had the facts, he
had the grasp, he had the vision, and none of that
would have mattered if he hadn’t also had the
touch. Which he did. Able to touch any
group—black, white, rich, poor, gay, straight,
conservative, liberal, men, women. Furthermore, it
was sincere. Larson had watched a lot of politicians
over the years. This one meant what he said, and he
didn’t say what he didn’t mean, and he was able to
say it in ways that different audiences could
actually hear.
Maybe Reading really could go all the way.
It was the first time Larson had really let himself
believe it. A handler, after all, was paid to
manufacture images, not to be seduced by
substance. And the skeptic in Larson didn’t actually
believe the United States was ready for a black
president. But listening to Reading in this too-old
school with its echoing wooden halls and
permanent smell of chalk, Larson suddenly wasn’t
so sure.
Reading had it all. Intelligent, educated, born in
the racial disaster of North Philadelphia but now
comfortably upper-middle-class, war hero (only in a
“minor” war, although they never were minor to the
guys who had to fight them). Solid-gold
middle-of-the-road voting record. Faithful husband
to the pretty-but-not-too-pretty wife listening to
him with her intelligent eyes alight. High-achieving
kids, no other women ever, no financial scandals. A
capable and decent human being. And Reading had
the touch, without which the rest of it wouldn’t
have mattered for shit.
The audience, mostly left-of-center middle-aged
New York types, laughed at something Reading
said. Larson could feel them warming. A few more
minutes, and Reading would have them eating from
his hand. Which was just the right color: clearly
black, but not too black. A rich chocolate. Malcolm