-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Ричард Морган
-
- Видоизмененный углерод
-
- Стр. 507/560
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
The
dispenser
clip
of
termite
microgrenades
,
each
one
not
much
larger
or
thicker
than
a
data
diskette
,
secured
in
a
pouch
on
my
left
hip
.
In
memoriam
Iphigenia
Deme
.
The
Tebbit
knife
on
my
forearm
in
its
neural
spring
sheath
beneath
the
stealth
suit
like
a
final
word
.
I
reached
for
the
cold
feeling
that
had
filled
me
up
outside
Jerry
’
s
Closed
Quarters
and
,
in
the
crystalline
depths
of
the
Reaper
,
did
not
need
it
.
Mission
time
.
"
Target
visual
,
"
called
the
pilot
.
"
You
want
to
come
up
and
have
a
look
at
this
baby
?
"
I
glanced
at
Ortega
,
who
shrugged
,
and
the
two
of
us
went
forward
.
Ortega
seated
herself
beside
the
mohican
and
slipped
on
the
co
-
pilot
’
s
headset
.
I
contented
myself
with
standing
next
to
Bautista
in
the
access
hatch
.
The
view
was
just
as
good
from
there
.
Most
of
the
Lock
-
Mit
’
s
cockpit
was
transparent
alloy
with
instrumentation
projected
up
onto
it
,
permitting
the
pilot
an
uninterrupted
view
of
the
surrounding
airspace
;
I
remembered
the
feeling
from
Sharya
,
like
riding
a
slightly
concave
tray
,
a
tongue
of
steel
or
maybe
a
magic
carpet
,
across
the
cloudscape
below
.
A
feeling
that
had
been
at
once
dizzying
and
godlike
.
I
glanced
at
the
mohican
’
s
profile
and
wondered
if
he
was
as
detached
from
that
feeling
as
I
was
under
the
influence
of
the
Reaper
.
There
were
no
clouds
tonight
.
Head
in
the
Clouds
hung
off
to
the
left
like
a
mountain
village
seen
from
afar
.
A
cluster
of
tiny
blue
lights
singing
gently
of
homecoming
and
warmth
in
the
icy
black
immensity
.
Kawahara
seemed
to
have
chosen
the
edge
of
the
world
for
the
whorehouse
.
As
we
banked
towards
the
lights
,
a
squiggle
of
electronic
sound
filled
the
cockpit
and
the
projected
instrumentation
dimmed
briefly
.
