"Neal Stephenson - Spew" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stephenson Neal)

Then I start opening windows: first, in the upper left, you and Evan in
wide-angle black-and-white. Then an episode of Starsky and Hutch that I happened
to notice. Starsky's hair is very big in this one. And then I open a data window
too and patch it into the feed coming out of your terminal down there at the
desk.
Profile Auditors can do this because data security on the Spew is a joke. It was
deliberately made a joke by the Government so that they, and we, and anyone else
with a Radio Shack charge card and a trade school diploma, can snoop on anyone.
I sit back on the bed and sip my execrable Mai Tai from its heavy, rusty can and
watch Starsky and Hutch. Every so often there's some activity at the desk and I
watch you and Evan for a minute. When Evan uses his terminal, lines of ASCII
text scroll up my data window. I cannot help noticing that when Evan isn't
actively slacking he can type at a burst speed in excess of 200 words per
minute.
From Starsky and Hutch I surf to an L.A. Law rerun and then to Larry King Live.
There's local news, then Dave comes on, and about the time he's doing his Top
Ten list, I see activity at the desk.
It is a young gentleman with hair way down past the epaulets of his tremendously
oversized black wool overcoat. Naked hairy legs protrude below the coat and are
socketed into large, ratty old basketball shoes. He is carrying, not a garment
bag, but a guitar.
For the first time all night, you and Evan show actual hospitality. Evan does
some punching on his computer, and monitoring the codes I can see that the
guitarist is being checked into a room.
Into my room. Not the one I'm in, but the one I'm supposed to be in. Number 707.
I pull out the fax that Marie at Kensington Place Worldwide Reservation Command
sent to me yesterday, just to double-check.
Sure enough, the guitarist is being checked into my room. Not only that - Evan's
checking him in under my name.
I go out into the streets of the city. You and Evan pretend to ignore me, but I
can see you following me with your eyes as I circumvent the doorman, who is
planted like a dead ficus benjamina before the exit, and throw my shoulder
against the sullen bulk of the revolving door. It has commenced snowing for the
11th time today. I walk cross-town to Television City and have a drink in a bar
there, a real Profile Auditor hangout, the kind of joint where I'm proud to be
seen. When I get back to the hotel, the shift has changed, you and Evan have
apparently stalked off into the rapidly developing blizzard, and the only person
there is the night clerk.
I stand there for 10 minutes or so while she winds down a rather involved,
multithreaded conversation with a friend in Ireland. "Stark," I say, as she's
hanging up, "Room 707. Left my keycard in the room."
She doesn't even ask to see ID, just makes up another keycard for me. Bad
service has its charms. But I cruise past the seventh floor and go on up to my
own cell because I want to do this right.
I jack into the Spew. I check out what's going on in Room 707.
First thing I look at is the Robobar transcript. Whoever's in there has already
gone through four beers and two non-sparkling mineral waters. And one bad Mai
Tai.
Guess I'm a trendsetter here. A hunch thuds into my cortex. I pop a beer from my
own Robobar and rewind the lobby security tape to midnight.