"01 - Armageddon, the Musical (b)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

A series of diminishing circles appeared upon the blued screen of the console. The voice said, 'Descent locked. In case of malfunction please remember that we are all part of a cosmic masterplan and that even in the moment of your extinction you are following your Karma and that the Dalai's thoughts are with you. Let's both sing to­gether, Om-mani-padme-hum . .. Om-mani-padme-hum . . .' 'Thanks a lot.' Rex switched off the console as the car fell heavily towards the overgrown car park at the back of the Tomorrowman Tavern. Here it struck the ground with a sickening thud. Rex felt at his teeth, none seemed

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any more loose than usual. He screwed on his weather-dome, released the canopy and stepped out to view the hostile landscape.

The pub looked about as wretched as any he had encountered before. A jumble of corrugated-iron sheets, welded together and sealed against nature beneath a plasticised acid-proof shell. A neon sign winked on and off, lamely advertising the establishment as 'The morroma Tav'.

Rex wandered across the car park. Two other vehicles were parked. One, a rather snappy Rigel Charger, prob­ably the perk of some TV bigwig, the other, a clapped-out Morris Minor converted into a half-track, anyone's guess.

The airlock and decontamination systems at the To-morrowman seemed to be largely symbolic in nature. A double plastic entrance-flap, between which crouched a lounge boy, who tossed tubs of anti-bacteriant at the visitor as he passed through. The grim expression upon the lad's face informed Rex that job satisfaction wasn't part and parcel of the post. Inside, the bar was everything that might reasonably be regretted. It was low and long and loathsome. Rex sought a mat to wipe his feet on, but there was none, so dripping profusely, he cradled his weatherdome and put on a brave face.

Several patrons hunched before the bar-counter, sipping dubious-looking cocktails and staring into TV terminals, Rex found a vacant bar-stool and climbed on to it. The barman behind the jump regarded him with passing interest. He was scabious fellow, in leathern apron and gloves. He lacked an eye and glared at the world with that remaining in a manner which, Rex felt, lacked a certain warmth.

'Good day to you,' said Rex encouragingly.

'Possibly your definition of the word differs from my

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own,’ replied the barman, idly dabbing at the counter with a rag unfit to swab latrines. 'But if you're buying liquor it's all the same to me.'

'Quite so.' Rex drummed his fingers upon the counter-top. 'Now, what shall I have?'

'The beer tastes like bog water and the liquor is distilled from rat turds.'

'Do you have a personal favourite?'

'Tomorrowman Brew is perhaps less noxious than most,’

'A double then,’

'As you please.' The barman decanted a small measure of the demon brew. 'Eyeball the terminal. Those I find to be without credit generally leave the establishment with a dented skull,’

Rex stared into the counter screen and much to his surprise it flashed up twenty credits to his favour.

'A man of means,’ said the barman, punching in Rex's account to date. 'Drink your fill,’

Rex placed the cup to his lips and took a tentative sip. It wasn't as bad as all that and the nausea which inevitably followed any kind of intoxication didn't come.

'Cheers,’ said Rex, raising his cup. 'Will you have one yourself?'

The barman eyed him with curiosity. 'You are asking me to take a drink at your expense?'

'Certainly,’

'The mad shall always be mad, such is the way of it.' He poured himself a large measure and knocked it back with a single movement. 'So,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the bar-cloth. 'What do you want to know?'

Rex finished his drink and stared into the putrid bottom of the cup. 'I'm a wanderer, a seeker after truth, if you like.'