"Нейл Стефенсон. Snow Crash (Снежная лавина, англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

him. The Kourier is not a man, it is a young woman. A fucking teenaged girL
She is pristine, unhurt. She has skated right down into the pool, she's now
oscillating back and forth from one side of the pool to the other, skating
up one bank, almost to the lip, turning around, skating down and across and
up the opposite side. She is holding her poon in her right hand, the
electromagnet reeled up against the handle so it looks like some kind of a
strange wide-angle intergalactic death ray. Her chest glitters like a
general's with a hundred little ribbons and medals, except each rectangle is
not a ribbon, it is a bar code. A bar code with an ID number that gets her
into a different business, highway, or FOQNE.
1'Yor she says. "Where's the pizza going?"
He's going to die and she's gamboling.
"White Columns. 5 Oglethorpe Circle," he says.
"I can do that. Open the hatch."
His heart expands to twice its normal size. Tears come to his eyes. He
may live. He presses a button and the hatch opens.
On her next orbit across the bottom of the pool, the Kouner yanks the
pizza out of its slot. The Deliverator winces, imagining the garlicky
topping accordioning into the back wall of the box. Then she puts it
sideways under her arm. It's more than a Deliverator can stand to watch.
But she'll get it there. Uncle Enzo doesn't have to apologize for ugly,
ruined, cold pizzas, just late ones.
"Hey," he says, "take this."
The Deliverator sticks his black-clad arm out the shattered
NEAL STEPHENSON
17
window. A white rectangle glows in the dim backyard light a business
card. The Kourier snatches it from him on her next orbit, reads it. It says

Hiro Protagonist
Last of the Freelance Hackers
Greatest swordfighter in the world
Stringer, Central Intelligence Corporation.
Specialising in Software related Intel.
(Music, Movies Microcode.)
On the back is gibberish explaining how he may be reached: a telephone
number. A universal voice phone locator code. A P.O. box. His address on
haifa dozen electronic communications nets. And an address in the Metaverse.
"Stupid name," she says, shoving the card into one of a hundred little
pockets on her coverall.
"But you'll never forget it," Hiro says.
"If you're a hacker. ."
"How come I'm delivering pizzas?"
"Right."
"Because I'm a freelance hacker. Look, whatever your name is-I owe you
one."
"Name's Y.T.," she says, shoving at the pool a few times with one foot,
building up more energy. She flies out of the pool as if catapulted, and
she's gone. The smartwheels of her skateboard, many, many spokes extending
and retracting to fit the shape of the ground, take her. across the lawn