"Victor Pelevin. Babylon (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

'And what is your answer?'
'It's very simple. I'm a timid cowering creature with inalienable
rights.' The next day Morkovin took Tatarsky to a strange place called Draft
Podium (after several minutes of intense mental effort Tatarsky abandoned
the attempt to guess what that meant). It was located in the basement of an
old brick-built house not far from the centre of town. Entry was via a heavy
steel door, which led into a small office space crammed with equipment.
Several young men were waiting there for Tatarsky. Their leader was a
stubble-cheeked guy by the name of Sergei, who looked like Dracula in his
younger days. He explained to Tatarsky that the small cube of blue plastic
standing on an empty cardboard box was a Silicon Graphics computer that cost
one hell of a lot of money, and the Soft Image program that was installed on
it cost twice as much. The Silicon was the most important treasure in this
subterranean cave. The room also contained a few more simple computers,
scanners and some kind of VCR with lots of dials and lights. One detail that
made a great impression on Tatarsky was that the VCR had a wheel on it with
a handle, like the wheel on a sewing machine, and you could use it to wind
on the frames on the tape by hand.
Draft Podium had a certain very promising client in its sights. 'The
mark's about fifty,' said Sergei, dragging on a menthol cigarette. 'Used to
work as a teacher of physics. Just when things started coming apart he set
up a co-operative baking bird's milk' cakes and in two years made so much
money that now he rents an entire confectionery plant in Lefortovo. Recently
he took out a big loan. The day before yesterday he went on the sauce, and
he usually stays on it about two weeks.'
'Where do you get that kind of information?' Tatarsky asked.
'His secretary/ said Sergei. 'So anyway, we have to get to him with the
scenario now, before he has time to sober up. When he sobers up, he gets
greedy. We're meeting tomorrow at one in his office.'
The next day Morkovin arrived at Tatarsky's place early. He brought
with him a large, bright-yellow plastic bag containing a maroon jacket made
of material that looked like the fabric they use for Russian army
greatcoats. The intricate crest gleaming on the breast pocket was
reminiscent of the emblem on a packet of Marlboro cigarettes. Morkovin said
it was a 'club jacket'. Tatarsky didn't understand what he meant, but he did
as he was told and put it on. Then Morkovin took a foppish notebook in a
leather cover out of the bag, together with an incredibly thick ballpoint
pen with the word 'Zoom' on it and a pager - at that time they'd only just
appeared in Moscow.
'You have to hang this thing on your belt,' he said. 'You're meeting
the client at one, and at twenty past one I'll give you a call on the pager.
When it beeps, take it off your belt and look at it like it's something
important. All the time the client's talking, keep making notes in the
notebook.'
'What's it all for?' Tatarsky asked.
'It's obvious enough, isn't it? The client's paying big money for a
sheet of paper and a few drops of black ink out of a printer. He has to be
absolutely certain plenty of others have paid money for the same thing
before him.'
'Seems to me,' said Tatarsky, 'all these jackets and pagers are just