"Reed, Robert - TheRemoras" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Robert)

worked on the ship's hull, standing in the open for hours and days at a time. A
broken seal was a disaster. Any tiny opening would kill most of his body, and
his suffering mind would fall into a protective coma. Left exposed and
vulnerable, Orleans would be at the mercy of radiation storms and comet showers.
Yes, she understood. A balky suit was an unacceptable hazard on top of lesser
hazards, and what could she say?

She felt a deep empathy for the man.

Orleans seemed to take a breath, then he said, "Perri owes me fifty-two thousand
credits, miss."

"I see." She swallowed and said, "My name is Quee Lee."

"Quee Lee," he repeated. "Yes, miss."

"As soon as Perri comes home, I'll discuss this with him. I promise you."

"I would be grateful if you did."

"I will."

The ugly mouth opened, and she saw blotches of green and gray-blue against a
milky throat. Those were cancers or perhaps strange new organs. She couldn't
believe she was in the company of a Remora-- the strangest sort of human -- yet
despite every myth, despite tales of courage and even recklessness, Orleans
appeared almost fragile. He even looked scared, she realized. That wet orange
face shook as if in despair, then came the awful grinding noise as he turned
away, telling her, "Thank you, Quee Lee. For your time and patience, and for
everything."

Fifty-two thousand credits!

She could have screamed. She would scream when she was alone, she promised
herself. Perri had done this man a great disservice, and he'd hear about it when
he graced her with his company again. A patient person, yes, and she could
tolerate most of his flaws. But not now. Fifty thousand credits was no fortune,
and it would allow Orleans to refurbish his lifesuit, making him whole and
healthy again. Perhaps she could get in touch with Perri first, speeding up the
process . . . ?

Orleans was through her front door, turning to say good-bye. False sunshine made
his suit shine, and his faceplate darkened to where she couldn't see his
features anymore. He might have any face, and what did a face mean? Waving back
at him, sick to her stomach, she calculated what fifty-two thousand credits
meant in concrete terms, to her . . . .

. . . wondering if she should . . . ?

But no, she decided. She just lacked the required compassion. She was a particle