"Daniel Marcus - Winter Rules" - читать интересную книгу автора (Marcus Daniel)

WINTER RULES
By Daniel Marcus

****

I WAS WALKING THROUGH the lobby toward the gambling tables and I noticed
that some of the letters had fallen off the sign near the registration desk. BALLY’S
RENO WELCOME EROS ACE SCIENCE INSTITUTE OF AMERICA

Eros Aces. Not bad. It could have been the name of a sleazy lounge band at
one of the brothels on the edge of town. Reno is a cross between Disneyland and
Gomorrah — a living shrine to every obsessive-compulsive character disorder
known to Homo americanus. A few of us had been pushing to get the conference
site changed — New Orleans maybe, even Houston — but money had changed
hands in some smoky board room somewhere, and we were hooked into “The
Biggest Little City in the World” for another two years. It wasn’t all bad. I liked
hanging around late at night in the card room near the main entrance. One to three
poker, pretty relaxed, and it was a perfect vantage point for watching the nation’s
top aerospace executives filter in from their night on the town. You could tell the
ones who had been out to the Mustang Ranch. They scuttled across the lobby like
great, blue-suited crabs, heads down, hands stiffly at their sides, projecting a studied
air of intense concentration, like they were preparing for that big presentation
tomorrow. What they were really thinking was probably more like, How am I going
to act normal with June, Wally, and the Beaver when I get back to Mayfield?

I sat down at one of the five-dollar blackjack tables, gave the dealer a
fifty-dollar bill, and she gave me ten red chips. There were two other men at the
table, both from the conference. They were still wearing their name tags, clipped to
the lapels of identical charcoal-gray suits. General Dynamics. I almost laughed out
loud. Back at Berkeley, whenever they did a recruiting pitch on campus, we’d make
up hundreds of posters and plaster them all over the place. It was a picture of a
mushroom cloud. Above the picture -GENERAL DEMONICS, and below —
ARMAGEDDON. WHY NOT MAKE A CAREER OUT OF IT? There was always
some angry looking suit with an ice scraper stalking from one poster to the next,
ripping down what he could. We’d follow about fifty feet behind him, putting up
new ones.

I put a chip in the circle inscribed on the felt in front of me and the dealer dealt
out two cards to each of us. I looked at my hand. An ace and a ten. Blackjack. I
flipped my cards over and the dealer gave me a red chip, two silvers, and a fifty-cent
piece.

“That was my blackjack!” the suit next to me said.

“You an engineer?” I asked.
 “Yeah, how did you know?”

“Well, you’re no physicist.”

He looked confused, opened his mouth, then shook his head and looked own