"Michael Swanwick - The Feast of Saint Janis" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

other said.
“There is some mistake,” Wolf objected.
“No, sir, there is no mistake,” one said mildly. The Other opened the
door. “After you, Mr. Mbikana.”
The old man on the stoop squinted up at them, looked away, and slid off
the step.
The police walked Wolf to an ancient administrative building. They
went up marble steps sagging from centuries of foot-scuffing, and through
an empty lobby. Deep within the building they halted before an
undistinguished-looking door. “You are expected,” the first of the police
said.
“I beg your pardon?”
The police walked away, leaving him there. Apprehensive, he knocked
on the door. There was no answer, so he opened it and stepped within.
A woman sat at a desk just inside the room. Though she was modernly
dressed, she wore a veil. She might have been young; it was impossible to
tell. A flick of her eyes, a motion of one hand, directed him to the open
door of an inner room. It was like following an onion to its conclusion, a
layer of mystery at a time.
A heavy-set man sat at the final desk. He was dressed in the traditional
suit and tie of American businessmen. But there was nothing quaint or
old-fashioned about his mobile, expressive face or the piercing eyes he
turned on Wolf.
“Sit down,” he grunted, gesturing toward an old, overstuffed chair.
Then: “Charles DiStephano. Comptroller for Northeast Regional. You’re
Mbikana, right?”
“Yes, sir.” Wolf gingerly took the proffered chair, which did not seem all
that clean. It was becoming clear to him now; DiStephano was one of the
men on whom he had waited these several months, the biggest of the lot,
in fact. “I represent—”
“The Southwest Africa Trade Company.” DiStephano lifted some
documents from his desk. “Now this says you’re prepared to offer—among
other things—resource data from your North American Coyote landsat in
exchange for the right to place students in Johns Hopkins. I find that an
odd offer for your organization to make.”
“Those are my papers,” Wolf objected. “As a citizen of Southwest Africa,
I’m not used to this sort of cavalier treatment.”
“Look, kid, I’m a busy man, I have no time to discuss your rights. The
papers are in my hands, I’ve read them, the people that sent you knew I
would, Okay? So I know what you want and what you’re offering. What I
want to know is why you’re making this offer.”
Wolf was disconcerted. He was used to a more civilized, a more leisurely
manner of doing business. The oldtimers at SWATC had warned him that
the pace would be different here, but he hadn’t had the experience to
decipher their veiled references and hints. He was painfully aware that he
had gotten the mission, with its high salary and the promise of a bonus,
only because it was not one that appealed to the older hands.
“America was hit hardest,” he said, “but the Collapse was worldwide.”
He wondered whether he should explain the system of corporate social
responsibility that African business was based on. Then decided that if