"Tom Purdom - Bank Run" - читать интересную книгу автора (Purdom Tom)

Bank Run
by Tom Purdom
Tom Purdom recently told us “I’m writing a literary memoir that tells how I
wrote certain stories—how I got the idea, dealt with literary problems,
editors, etc.—along with relevant glimpses of personal things like my
marriage, and I’m posting it on my website, philart.net/tompurdom. The first
three installments discuss my early stories, the fourth and fifth my Asimov’s
Casanova tales.” His newest story for us is a fast-paced and exciting look at
what the future may mean by a “Bank Run”.
****
Sabor was sitting in the passenger shack with his concubine when his personal
assistant spotted the other boat. Sabor was devoting half his attention to the
concubine and half to the numbers on his information display—a form of
multitasking that combined his two major interests.
Choytang rested his hand on Sabor’s shoulder. He pointed toward the rear
window and Sabor immediately dimmed the numbers floating in front of his eyes.
The other boat was fueled by coal and propelled by a screw. It was moving
approximately three times faster than the solar-powered paddlewheel transport that
was carrying Sabor and his two companions up the lake. Eight soldiers were formed
up on the right side. The six soldiers in the front row were lean hardbodies. The two
soldiers standing behind them were massives who looked like they could have
powered their boat with their own muscles. Their tan uniforms were accented with
chocolate helmets and crossbelts—a no-nonsense, low contrast style that had
become the trademark of one of the more expensive costumers on the planet.
Sabor’s wristband had been running his banking program, as usual. The
display was presenting him with the current status of the twelve-hour loan market.
Twelve-hour loans were routine transactions—accounting maneuvers that maintained
reserves at an acceptable level—and he usually let his alter run his operations in the
twelve-hour market. He always checked it at least twice a day, however, to make
sure his competitors hadn’t developed an unpleasant surprise.
Sabor’s concubine had already activated her own display. “There’s a fishing
commune called Galawar about four kilometers from here,” the concubine reported.
“You financed a dam and a big breeding operation for them. Their militia setup gets
its real-life practice pursuing poachers and running rescue patrols. They can
probably have a small force here eight minutes after their watch master initiates
assembly.”
Sabor returned the twelve-hour market to his alter and replaced it with the
latest figures on the current status of the Galawar loan. “I’ll talk to our captain. See if
you can exercise your charms on the appropriate officers of the commune.”
 The captain had isolated herself in her control shack fifteen minutes after her
boat had left the dock. She was sprawling in a recliner with her eyes fixed on the top
of a window and her attention focused on the material her personal display was
imprinting on her optic nerves.
“I’m afraid I may be about to cause you some trouble,” Sabor said. “I
registered a counterfeit identity when I boarded your boat. My true name is Sabor
Haveri. As you probably know, I’m the proprietor of the bank that furnishes your
company its primary line of credit.”
The captain had looked tall when she had been stretched across her recliner
but she looked even taller when she stood up. She had been operating lake boats for
eighteen years, but the information in the public databanks had made it clear her