"John Varley - The Ophiuchi Hotline" - читать интересную книгу автора (Varley John)

supervisory over the computers who do the actual governing. I've never been sure if that's such a
good thing, but Tweed made me thankful for it. Not that my opinions mattered at the moment.
I put political ruminations aside and prepared to listen to whatever pitch he was about to make. It
had to be better than what I was facing.


"Don't get any ideas," he said, in that famous bass rumble. "I'm protected against anything you might
try to do."
Lilo realized he was talking about attempts on his life. Nothing could have been further from her
mind. He was here, where he had no legal right to be, he had just shown her what had to be an illegal
clone; she could think of no reason he would have done these things unless he had something to offer
her, and she was very interested in hearing it.
"You will find in our future dealings that I am invariably protected."
"I don't see how that information can be of any use to me unless I'm going to be dealing with you in
the future. As you know, my future is limited at this moment." She tried to keep it light, to keep the
hope out of her voice, but it was impossible. The guilty weight of the knife pressing against her thigh
and the trickle of blood on her arm testified to how much bargaining leverage she could bring to the
conversation.
"Yes, you will be dealing with me in the future. You—" he gestured toward the bathroom "—or
that... other woman. The choice will be yours."
She could hear voices from the bathroom; the sound of water running and an angry voice that she
barely recognized as her own. Her twin was waking up, and she dreaded it.
"What's the choice?"
"First, understand your position. I—"



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The Ophiuchi Hotline by John Varley

"I know my position, damn it. Get on with it."
"Be patient. I want you to know a few things first." He paused, then took out a cigar and went
through the process of trimming and lighting it. He was an extraordinarily ugly person, Lilo thought,
with the ugliness that only caricature can achieve. As repulsive as a twisted, stunted ghost from the
past on Old Earth.
"The clone was grown illegally, obviously," Tweed resumed. "But you are no longer a useful witness
to anything. You will never have a chance to tell anyone what you have seen here today, should you
refuse me. Your only contact from now on will be with Vaffa and Hygeia, the two guards you just
saw. Both are loyal to me."
"What else can you tell me that I'm so goddam anxious to know? You didn't do all this to taunt me.
You're a... never mind. I don't like you much. Never did."
"And I don't like you. But I can use you. I want you to work for me."
"Fine. When do we get started? As you pointed out, we'd better hurry, because I don't have that long
to live." But the sarcasm fell flat, even in her own ears, because her throat hurt so badly when she
said it. He laughed, politely, and she was so receptive to him that she nearly laughed herself. She
stifled it when it threatened to turn into a sob.
"There is that little problem," he agreed. "I'm offering you a chance to bow out of your execution. I'm
offering you a stand-in."
He looked at the bathroom door—there were sounds of a struggle—and back to her. He raised his
eyebrows.