Iris William Barton

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.Their eyes opened, reddish orange, dully glowing coals."A touch of humanity," murmured Demogorgon, "and a strong flavor of alienness.Good work."The two Seedees walked slowly forward to stand before them while the others hung back andwatched, motionless and silent.The two groups examined one another for a drawn-out moment; then themale being spoke."I am called Seven Red Anchorelles," he said."You are the aliens?"Krzakwa smiled softly."I guess we are," he said.7red nodded slowly and exchanged glances with the woman.In their featurelessness, they seemed tocommunicate.He turned back to the humans."We know you're here to destroy the ancient Mind, whatyou call Centrum.""Wait a minute!" said Cornwell."We don't want to."7red held up a pale hand, silencing him."It doesn't matter what you intend.That is what you havecome to do.We want to join you.""Why?" asked Krzakwa flatly, his voice echoing from the hardening stone of the chamber."That'llmean the end of you all."Cooloil spoke for the first time, her voice portrayed as a rich, deep flow of liquid syllables."We knowthat.We don't care.This has gone on long enough.Our people have never been free, and if we cannotbe free, we would as soon cease to exist."The humans could find no reply to this, each buried in his own secret responses.Cornwell foundhimself recalling his feelings as he'd emerged from his first submergence into the world of Centrum, whenthey'd followed Sealock's fleeing soul down into the depths."Poor bastards, indeed," he murmured, and,"Join us, then.We'll do what we can."The Seedee reached forward and grasped his hand, touching him only fleetingly, while the otherspressed forward, animated by an eagerness to begin. Achmet Aziz el-Tabari was in Montevideo, in Tupamaro Arcology so far from Paris, to meet with histechnical adviser for the first time.He walked through the cool, dark, quiet hallways, thinking of what itcould mean.Brendan Sealock.He rolled the name around, considering its feel.It was anordinary-seeming sort of name, a Sean Smith-like Anglo-Irish pastiche, but the syllables had a rollingdignity to them that was unusual.It sounded like the name of an impressive man and he wondered whatsort of figure would be attached to it.He smiled.Probably a typical sort of brain-worker: short, skinny,stuttering.A hundred years ago he would have had rotten teeth and thick glasses.This character wouldprobably smell bad.The vital statistics had been sparse.Born in the Deseret Enclave Complex thirty-twoyears ago, moved to New York Free City when eighteen, and spent the rest of his life at NYU.Typical.Some kind of theoretical design engineer working for MCD.A high-caliber type.Unlimited Comnetaccess.That puzzled him a little.When he'd applied to Comnet for professional assistance in designing theIllimitor World, he'd been expecting to get a list of good programmers, preferably people working right inParis, where he could easily visit them in person.He liked to work closely with the craftsmen he hired.You never knew when some sexy flesh might wander by.After his request, Comnet had asked for a setof specifications, so he'd sent in a pr�cis of what he wanted the program to do.Astonishingly, there hadbeen a wait of several minutes, then the unit had sent him one name, Brendan Sealock, and a single-digitTY-com address.Weird.Whoever heard of a one-number address? Not only that, but why had Comnet referred him to adesign engineer? The world held millions of top-quality programmers, many of them hell, most ofthem working in artistic fields.Surely the program wasn't so difficult that it would require newhardware! The idea was beginning to disturb him.He arrived at the correct door and announced himself.He stood in front of it, staring at his own eyelevel, waiting for a person to appear.The door slid open and he was gazing at a chest.Demogorgon gasped and took a sudden step backward.The man was huge! At least a hundred kilos,close to a hundred and ninety centimeters tall.He looked upward from a broad, heavily muscled bodyinto a face marked by unreconstructed scars.Details began to force themselves on him.At some pointthe man's nose had obviously been broken, and his eyes were dark green, sunk into shadows beneathheavy brows.His hair was a reddish-blond tangle, cut short in what looked like a homemade butchery ofa coiffure.Sealock was grinning at him, showing big, square white teeth.He let his eyes drift downward, drinking in the minutiae of his physique.The man was dressed in whitetennis shorts and a sleeveless shirt.His arms were thick, laden with big, slabby muscles and roped withthick veins; his legs were sleek, hairy pillars ending in short, broad, blunt-toed feet.His hands hadknobby, white-scarred knuckles, as if he'd spent a lot of time fighting with stone walls."Ah." Heswallowed, convulsively, fighting confusion."Mr.Sealock?"The behemoth nodded."Right.You must be Tabari, the artist." He stood aside from the doorway thathe blocked, moving with a lithe grace that somehow fitted in with his otherwise megalithic appearance."Come on in.I've been waiting for you [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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