"Robert Reed - Treasure Buried" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Robert)

TREASURE BURIED
By Robert Reed

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R & D WERE UP AGAINST THE titans from Marketing, seven innings of
groin-pulling, hamstring-shredding, take-no-prisoners slow-pitch softball, and
Marketing had stacked their team. It was obvious to Mekal.

“What do you think, Wallace? That kid in center field? He’s got to play
college ball. And their shortstop, what’s her name? With the forearms? I bet if you
stuck her you’d get more testosterone than blood, I bet so. And Jesus, that pitcher
has got to have a dose of chimp genes. You haven’t been moonlighting, have you,
Wallace? Arms like those. Reaching halfway to home plate before releasing. But hey,
Meiter drew a walk at least. If they don’t double us up, I’m getting my swings. So
wish me luck, Wallace. I’m planning to go downtown!”

Wallace nodded, uncertain what “downtown” meant and certainly bored with
the pageant happening around him. He was aware of Mekal rising to his feet — a tall
rangy man old enough not to be boyish anymore, yet not softened enough to be
middle-aged — and then Wallace wasn’t aware of anything besides the sunshine and
his own convoluted thoughts. “Chimp Genes” reminded him of a problem at work.
Not Wallace’s problem, but he was the resident troubleshooter and the Primate
Division was having more troubles with their freefall monkeys. The little critters
weren’t behaving themselves in orbit, either their training or their expensive genes at
fault. They were put into the space stations to help clean and to keep the personnel
company. Friendly, cuddly companions, and all that. But the prototypes were
shitting everywhere and screaming day and night. And Wallace was wondering if it
was something subtle, even stupid, overlooked as a consequence. Zero-gee, freefall .
. . was it some kind of inbred panic reaction? Maybe the monkeys had troubles with
weightlessness. What if . . . what if they felt as if they were falling, tailoring and
instinct making it seem as if they were tumbling from some infinitely tall canopy — a
thousand mile drop, the poor things— and with that sweet possibility in mind
Wallace heard the crack of a composite bat, Mekal standing at home plate,
screaming:

“Go go go you ugly fuck of a ball!”

A blurring white something arced across the soft blue sky, geometric
perfection drawing Wallace’s attention; and then the center fielder jumped high
against the back fence, ball and glove meeting, his grace casual to the point of
insulting and the inning finished. Five runs down already, and Mekal stormed back to
the dugout in the worst kind of rage — silent — standing without moving for a long
moment, unable to focus his eyes or even think. It was that famous Mekal intensity.
In R&D he was feared and sucked up to, some employees openly hoping that the
man’s temper would cause some vital artery to burst in his brain. Not necessarily
killing him, no. But causing a constructive kind of brain damage, removing the most
offensive portions of his personality —

— and then there was a voice, close and almost soft. The voice said to Mekal,