"Michael Scott Rohan - Chase the Morning" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rohan Michael Scott)

Dave flapped his hands. 'Hey, I didn't have anything to do with that!
Steve got it -'
Barry stared. Evidently he didn't think me capable of inventing it. 'You
mean it actually was in the database? My God, nowhere's safe from those
hackers these days. Next thing it'll be a virus program, mark my words -'
Clare bit gently on a knuckle and giggled. I wasn't fooled; she was
generally thinking hard when she did that. 'It has to be a fake - hasn't it? I
mean, five hundred tons -what kind of displacement's that for a merchant ship!
And what's Conqueror Root? And a-a merhorse?'
'Might be a mistranslation,' I ventured, having had some time to think
about it. 'For hippopotamus - or walrus - you know what happens when somebody
sits down with a dictionary.'
'Might be,' agreed a baffled Barry. 'How come you called this up, Steve,
anyhow?'
I shrugged. 'Just overheard the name of the ship then other day - you
know, pub gossip
I caught a very odd look from Clare, as if she'd sensed a wrong note
somewhere. 'Well, there's one way to find out,' she said practically, going to
my shelves and taking down one of the disc binders. 'Why don't we see if this
Iskander's in Lloyd's Register?' She put a hand on my shoulder as she leaned
over me to slip the iridescent disc into the CD-Rom unit, and let it rest
there. I typed in my query as soon as the menu came up on screen, and the unit
purred for only a fraction of a second before the answer came.
'Not a bleeding sausage,' Dave said regretfully.
I pondered, carefully ignoring that light touch. Tes - but this is just
the annual Register; it doesn't include back issues, old entries, historical
ones ... I'm going to try their main database.' It took quite a lot longer to
get through, and five full minutes to access my query. We were about to give
up, when suddenly the answer popped up on the screen. We stared; it wasn't at
all in their usual detailed form.
Iskander, 500 tons - merchant sailing vessel, 3 mtr.
Reg. Huy Brazeal.
Ref. Register of Shipping vol. 1868
Barry cackled wildly. '1868? And what's this Huy Brazeal registry? A
misprint for somewhere in Brazil, I suppose. Honestly, I wonder if they
haven't started trading in certain substances down there! Or it really is
hackers. There's nothing else?'
'I could go down and look up the actual 1868 lists,' suggested Clare
thoughtfully.
Barry snorted. 'Well, not on the firm's time you don't! As of now I for
one give up! We don't chase wild geese, we ship 'em livestock - eh, Steve? I
just dropped in to say everything's in hand, you should push off now and get
some rest. See you tomorrow!' He took one last look at the screen, then shook
his head and grunted derisively. 'Hackers!'
But I wasn't so sure. As I drove home that night through a thin weeping
drizzle I glanced uneasily at the turn-off for Danube Street. But there was no
sunset banner to tempt me seaward; the sicy was overcast, a featureless dome
of gloomy grey cloud, and the louring buildings were wrapped in shadow, sullen
and forbidding. It looked both sinister and depressingly ordinary, and
thoroughly damped any desire I had to turn that way and test the truth of my