"Rudy Rucker - Realware" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rucker Rudy)

"Tre thinks it wasn't really the wowo itself," put in Phil. "He thinks it was a creature from the fourth dimension that the
wowo attracted."

"Big difference," said Willow.

"Maybe you could grow a new husband," suggested Kevvie. "Like Yoke's father is doing."

"I assume Yoke is this little chippie here? How many people did you bring along, Tre? I mean besides the moldie. Do
you think this a fucking hairfarmer beach party?"

"I'm sorry, Willow," said Tre. "We'll go now."

"Good!" Willow burst into tears and Jane held her, letting Willow's metallic blonde head rest on her shoulder.

Cobb appeared in the driveway just then. Tre and Terri murmured a quick good-bye and went to meet him. And then,
before Phil could really say a proper good-bye to her, Yoke was gone too.

"Ooops," said Kevvie, rolling her eyes and grinning. She never knew what to make of big dramatic situations. At a time
like this, Kevvie's cheery emptiness was kind of a relief. Phil linked arms with her and walked back to the buffet.

February 19

Phil thought about Yoke all the time for the next few days— whenever he wasn't worrying about the wowos or
thinking about his father. He'd hoped that with the old man dead, there'd be nobody nagging him to make something of
himself. But the memory tapes were playing on. Thinking about Yoke was much better. Phil thought about Yoke so
much that when she turned up at the LoLo restaurant on Thursday, sitting at a table right near the kitchen, he almost
wasn't surprised. Just, "Whew, here it is."

"Is this the guy?" Naranjo was saying, Naranjo the waiter who'd called Phil out of the kitchen. "Is this the hombre you
lookin' for?"

Yoke was all smiles, sitting at a table with two guys and a woman. Phil recognized two of them: Saint and Babs
Mooney, regulars in the San Francisco art scene. "Hi, Phil!" called Yoke. "I was hoping I'd find you here. Can you
come out with us later?"

"He gotta stay and scrub a lotta potatoes," said Naranjo. "He's just an assistant chef. He gonna be here till about three
maybe four a.m."

"Don't listen to him," said Phil. "It's great to see you, Yoke. Hi, Saint. Hi, Babs. I'll be through at eleven-thirty. It's ten
now, so take your time eating and I can leave with you. With any luck, you'll be tonight's last customers. Things are
really slow." A big storm had come in off the Pacific this afternoon and it was raining like people were up on the roofs
with hoses. You could hear the splashing of the water through the glass of the windows. "You haven't ordered yet,
have you?"

"How's the squid?" asked the fourth member of the dining party, a tenor-voiced fellow with shoulder-length red-blond
hair that was very straight and fine. "Do you serve it with tentacles?"

"Sure," said Phil, taking an immediate dislike to the man, probably because he was sitting next to Yoke. "We've even
got ink. But I'd recommend our deep-sea oarfish today. Brought in by a moldie this afternoon, he caught it himself. You
can't catch an oarfish with ordinary techniques; it swims too deep. It has a nice firm flesh from living at such a high