"Larry Niven & Steve Barnes - The Descent of Anansi" - читать интересную книгу автора (Niven Larry)

Construction. With terms favorable to beth sides, such a merger could be~—” he groped for
words. “I do not care what it takes. We will have that cable.”
“Your company president. Your Senhor Castellon. He will not match Oyama’s bid?”
“Castellon is a sick old man. He spends half of the year in Caxambu, drinking the waters to
heal a faulty liver. His problem is not in the liver—it is in the heart. He has no heart for a
gamble.”
An electric-eye scan of the BTE executive’s identification card admitted them to the fifty-
fourth floor. Yamada stepped out and smiled reflexively at the pleasant softness of the carpet. He
said, “And you do?”
“I would not have brought you here otherwise. I, and a few others in my company, we have
the heart. We are young, and strong. We will gamble.”
Yamada wondered, too late, if it had been wise to betray Oyama Construction to this man.
He was suddenly very aware of what he himself was gambling. Income, reputation, honor,
freedom...if he lost.
The BTE executive suite was as luxurious as practicality would allow. Muted music flowed
from the inner walls, and many of the outer walls were gold-tinted plastic. The tinting reduced
the glare without obstructing the view of the city. It was a view worthy of appreciation, a vista of
silver and red buildings sparkling in the sun almost as far as the eye could see.
The receptionist was alert and smiling a greeting as the elevator door slid open. “Boa tarde,
Senhor Xavier.”
“Boa tarde, Luisa. Apresento-lhe o Senhor…” he turned to Yamada apologetically.
“Excuse me. Luisa, this is Mr. Yamada. We will be in conference. Call Mr. da Silva, Mr.
Costa, and Mr. Giorgi. Have them come to my office. Obrigado. Mr. Yamada? This way,
please.”
Xavier led the slender Oriental down the hallway and steered him around a right corner. This
corridor ended in a huge oak-panelled door with the name J. Xavier centered on a rectangle of
brass. The door swung open without a sound, and they entered.
 There was a large conference desk in the front part of the office with a setup for videophone
conferences. Yarnada doubted that Xavier would want the contents of this particular conference
broadcast over any line, no matter how secure.
“Please. Be seated. Drink?” Yamada shook his head no, accepting the invitation to sit. Xavier
busied himself at a small wetbar, coming back with a short glass of ice and clear liquid garnished
with a twisted slice of lime.
He sat across from Yamada, sipped his drink and gazed at him speculatively. Yamada felt
naked, stripped to the skin and then flensed to the bone. Xavier probed and examined and
weighed, finally laying the meat arid organs back in place, slipping the skin back onto the body.
No Japanese would have stared so. The room’s silence was oppressive, and Yamada fought
to escape that gaze, to break contact with those bottomless black eyes. He found a painting to
look at, a garish thing of oranges and blacks. Concentric rings of color surrounded plastic
bubbles that rose inches out from the canvas, sprays of yellow arcing through the black
background like comets through space.
A name clicked in his mind. “This is your Mr. Castellar’s work, is it not?”
Xavier smiled, some of the coolness leaving his face. “Yes. You know our painters? He was
one of the finest. Emilio Castellar dreamed of space when much of our country was trying
merely to enter the industrial age. A man of vision.”
The office door opened, and two men entered, followed a moment later by a third. One of
them was Xavier’s height, a fraction over six feet, but heavy in the stomach and thighs. He
nodded without speaking. Xavier filled the silence. “This is Mr. da Silva. Edson da Silva.”
The second was a small, neat man with a beard that had been trimmed to a razor point. His
hazel eyes seemed to be in constant quick movement. His skin was lighter than Xavier’s or da