William Gibson & Bruce Sterling The Difference Engine

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Sybil. "How may I be of service, madame?"
The words came hard, almost stammering at first. "Could you tell me please,
has a Mr. Michael
. . . or, rather . . . is General Sam Houston still registered here?"
"Yes, madame. I did see General Houston, earlier this evening. However, he's
in our smoking-
room now . . . Perhaps you could leave a message?"
"Smoking-room?"
"Yes -- over there, behind the acanthus." The clerk nodded toward a massive
door at the corner of the lobby. "Our smoking-room is not for the ladies, of
course . . . Forgive me, madame, but you seem a bit distressed. If the
matter's vital, perhaps I should send a page."
"Yes," Sybil said, "that would be wonderful." The night-clerk obligingly
produced a sheet of cream-laid hotel stationery and proffered his gold-nibbed
reservoir-pen.
She wrote hastily, folded the note, scrawled MR. MICHAEL RADLEY on the back.
The night-clerk crisply rang a bell, bowed in response to her thanks, and went
about his business.
Shortly, a yawning and sour-faced little page appeared and placed her note on
a cork-topped salver.
Sybil trailed anxiously behind as he trudged to the smoking-room. "It is for
the General's personal secretary," she said.
" 'Tis awright, miss, I know 'im." He heaved one-handed at the smoking-room
door. As it opened, and the page passed through, Sybil peered in. As the door
slowly closed, she had a long glimpse of Houston, bare-headed, shiny-faced,
and sweaty-drunk, with one booted foot propped on the table, beside a
cut-glass decanter. He had a wicked-looking jackknife in his hand, and was
puffing smoke and jabbing at something -- whittling, that was it, for the
floor around his leather chair was littered with wood-shavings.
A tall bearded Englishman murmured something to Houston. The stranger had his
left arm caught in a white silk sling, and looked sad-eyed and dignified and
important. Mick stood at his side, bending at the waist to light the man's
cheroot. Sybil saw him rasping at a steel sparker, on the end of a dangling
rubber gas-tube, and then the door shut.
Sybil sat on a chaise-longue in the echoing marble lobby, warmth stealing
through her damp, grimy shoes; her toes began to ache. Then the page emerged
with Mick on his heels, Mick smiling back into the smoking-room and sketching
out a cheery half-salute. Sybil rose from her seat.
Seeing her there, his narrow face went bleak.
He came to her quickly, took her elbow. "Bloody Christ," he muttered, "what
kind of silly note was that? Can't you make sense, girl?"
"What is it?" she pleaded. "Why didn't you come for me?"
"Bit of a contretemps. I'm afraid. Case of the fox biting his own arse. Might
be funny if it weren't so bleeding difficult. But having you here now may
change matters . . . "
"What's gone wrong? Who's that gentry cove with the gammy arm?"
"Bloody British diplomat as doesn't care for the General's plan to raise an
army in Mexico.
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Never you mind him. Tomorrow we'll be in France, and he'll be here in London,
annoyin' someone else. At least I hope so . . . The General's queered things
for us, though. Drunk as a lord and he's pulled one of his funny little tricks
. . . He's a nasty bastard when he drinks, truth to tell. Starts to forget his
friends."
"He's gulled you somehow," Sybil realized. "He wants to cut you loose, is that
it?"
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"He's nicked my kino-cards," Mick said.
"But I mailed them to Paris, poste restante" Sybil said. "Just as you told me
to do."
"Not those, you goose -- the kino-cards from the speech!"
"Your theatre cards? He stole 'em?"
"He knew I had to pack my cards, take 'em along with me, don't you see? So he
kept a watch on me somehow, and now he's nicked 'em from my baggage. Says he
won't need me in France after all, so long as he's got my information. He'll
hire some onion-eater can run a kino on the cheap. Or so he says."
"But that's theft!"
" 'Borrowing,' according to him. Says he'll give me back my cards, as soon as
he's had 'em copied. That way I don't lose nothin', you see?"
Sybil felt dazed. Was he teasing her? "But isn't that stealing, somehow?"
"Try arguing that with Samuel bloody Houston! He stole a whole damn country
once, stole it clean and picked it to the bone!"
"But you're his man! You can't let him steal from you."
Mick cut her off. "When it comes to that -- you might well ask how I had that
fancy French program made. You might say I borrowed the General's money for
it, so to speak." He showed his teeth in a grin. "Not the first time we've
tried such a stunt on one another. It's a bit of a test, don't you see? Fellow
has to be a right out-and-outer, to travel with General Houston . . .
"
"Oh Lord," Sybil said, collapsing into her crinoline on the chaise. "Mick, if [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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