"Charles Stross - Accelerando" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

He takes the card, raises an eyebrow: "Annette Dimarcos? I'm pleased to meet you. Can't say I've ever met anyone
from Arianespace marketing before."
She smiles warmly; "That is all right. I have not the pleasure of meeting the famous venture altruist either."
Her accent is noticeably Parisian, a pointed reminder that she's making a concession to him just by talking. Her
camera earrings watch him curiously, encoding everything for the company memory. She's a genuine new
European, unlike most of the American exiles cluttering up the bar.
"Yes, well." He nods cautiously, unsure how to deal with her. "Bob. I assume you're in on this ball?"
Franklin nods; beads clatter. "Yeah, man. Ever since the Teledesic smash it's been, well, waiting. If you've
got something for us, we're game."
"Hmm." The Teledesic satellite cluster was killed by cheap balloons and slightly less cheap high-altitude,
solar-powered drones with spread-spectrum laser relays: It marked the beginning of a serious recession in the
satellite biz. "The depression's got to end sometime: But" – a nod to Annette from Paris – "with all due respect, I
don't think the break will involve one of the existing club carriers."
She shrugs. "Arianespace is forward-looking. We face reality. The launch cartel cannot stand. Bandwidth is
not the only market force in space. We must explore new opportunities. I personally have helped us diversify into
submarine reactor engineering, microgravity nanotechnology fabrication, and hotel management." Her face is a
well-polished mask as she recites the company line, but he can sense the sardonic amusement behind it as she adds:
"We are more flexible than the American space industry ..."
Manfred shrugs. "That's as may be." He sips his Berlinerweisse slowly as she launches into a long, stilted
explanation of how Arianespace is a diversified dot-com with orbital aspirations, a full range of merchandising
spin-offs, Bond movie sets, and a promising hotel chain in LEO. She obviously didn't come up with these talking
points herself. Her face is much more expressive than her voice as she mimes boredom and disbelief at appropriate
moments — an out-of-band signal invisible to her corporate earrings. Manfred plays along, nodding occasionally,
trying to look as if he's taking it seriously: Her droll subversion has got his attention far more effectively than the
content of the marketing pitch. Franklin is nose down in his beer, shoulders shaking as he tries not to guffaw at the
hand gestures she uses to express her opinion of her employer's thrusting, entrepreneurial executives. Actually, the
talking points bullshit is right about one thing: Arianespace is still profitable, due to those hotels and orbital holiday
hops. Unlike LockMartBoeing, who'd go Chapter Eleven in a split second if their Pentagon drip-feed ran dry.
Someone else sidles up to the table; a pudgy guy in outrageously loud Hawaiian shirt with pens leaking in a
breast pocket and the worst case of ozone-hole burn Manfred's seen in ages. "Hi, Bob," says the new arrival. "How's
life?"




Page 9
Stross/Accelerando



"'S good." Franklin nodes at Manfred; "Manfred, meet Ivan MacDonald. Ivan, Manfred. Have a seat?" He
leans over. "Ivan's a public arts guy. He's heavily into extreme concrete."
"Rubberized concrete," Ivan says, slightly too loudly. "Pink rubberized concrete."
"Ah!" He's somehow triggered a priority interrupt: Annette from Arianespace drops out of marketing
zombiehood with a shudder of relief and, duty discharged, reverts to her non corporate identity: "You are he who
rubberized the Reichstag, yes? With the supercritical carbon-dioxide carrier and the dissolved polymethoxysilanes?"
She claps her hands, eyes alight with enthusiasm: "Wonderful!"
"He rubberized what?" Manfred mutters in Bob's ear.
Franklin shrugs. "Don't ask me, I'm just an engineer."
"He works with limestone and sandstones as well as concrete; he's brilliant!" Annette smiles at Manfred.