"George R. R. Martin - Loaves and Fishes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

comfortable auxiliary communications room that appears to be fully functional. I would like your
cybertechs to reprogram and redesign the command systems so that in future I will be able to accomplish
anything that might need accomplishing from there, without the need of making the exhausting daily trek
to the bridge—indeed, without the need of leaving my seat.
“Beyond these major tasks, I have in mind only a few further alterations. Some minor modernizations,
perhaps. The addition of a kitchen with a full array of spices and flavorings, and a large recipe library, in
order that I might dine on food somewhat more varied and interesting to the palate than the grimly
nutritious military fare the Ark is now programmed to provide. A large stock of beers and wines and the
mechanisms necessary to ferment my own in future, during lengthy deep-space voyagings. The
augmentation of my existing entertainment facilities through the acquisition of some books, holoplays, and
music chips dating from this last millennium. A few new security programs. Other trifling minor changes. I
will provide you with a list.”
Tolly Mune listened to him with astonishment. “Goddamn,” she said when he had finished. “You really do
have a derelict EEC seedship, don’t you?”
“Indeed,” said Haviland Tuf. A little stiffly, she thought.
She grinned. “My apologies. I’ll scramble a crew of spinnerets and cybertechs, scream ’em right over to
have a look, and we’ll get you an estimate. Don’t hold your goddamned breath, though. That big a ship,
it’ll take quite a while before they begin to sort things out. I’d better post some security, too, or you’ll
have all kinds of curiosity seekers tramping through your halls and stealing souvenirs.” She looked his
hologram up and down thoughtfully. “I’ll need you to give my crew a briefing and point them in the right
direction. After that, it’d be better if you got out from underfoot and let them run amuck. You can’t bring
that damned monstrosity into the web, it’s too puling big. You got any way of getting out of there?”
“The Ark is equipped with a full complement of shuttlecraft, all operational,” said Haviland Tuf, “but I
have scant desire to leave the comforts of my quarters. Certainly my ship is large enough so that my
presence will not seriously inconvenience your crews.”
“Hell, you know that and I know that, but they work better if they don’t think someone’s looking over
their shoulders,” said Tolly Mune. “Besides, I’d think you’d want to get out of that can a bit. You’ve
been shut up alone for how long?”
“Several standard months,” Tuf admitted, “although I am not strictly alone. I have enjoyed the company
of my cats, and have pleasantly occupied myself learning the capabilities of the Ark and expanding my
knowledge of ecological engineering. Still, I will concede your point that perhaps a bit of recreation is in
order. The opportunity to sample a new cuisine is always to be relished.”
“Wait’ll you try S’uthlamese beer! And the port has other diversions as well—exercise facilities, hotels,
sports, drug dens, sensoria, sex parlors, live theater, gaming halls.”
“I have some small skill at certain games,” Tuf said.
“And then there’s tourism,” Tolly Mune said. “You can just take the tubetrain down the elevator to the
surface, and all the districts of S’uthlam are yours to explore.”
“Indeed,” said Tuf. “You have intrigued me, Portmaster Mune. I fear I am of a curious temperament. It is
my great weakness. Unfortunately, my funds preclude a lengthy stay.”
“Don’t worry about that,” she replied, smiling. “We’ll just put it on your repair bill, settle up afterwards.
Now, just hop in your goddamned shuttle and bring yourself to, let’s see...dock nine-eleven is vacant.
See the Spiderhome first, then take the train downstairs. You ought to be a goddamned sensation.
You’re on the newsfeeds already, you know. The groundworms and flies will be crawling all over you.”
“A decaying piece of meat might find this prospect appealing,” said Haviland Tuf. “I do not.”
“Well then,” the Portmaster said, “go incognito!”


The steward on the tubetrain wheeled out a tray of beverages shortly after Haviland Tuf had strapped
himself in for the trip downstairs. Tuf had sampled S’uthlamese beer in the restaurants of Spiderhome,
and found it thin, watery, and notably devoid of taste. “Perhaps your offerings include some malt