Labyrinth of reflections by Sergei Lukyanenko Read Free Book Online

same. Absolutely all women are perfectly beautiful and of all types: from blond Scandinavians to charcoal black Africans. Most men are terrible freaks. No, it's not true of course, just my subconsciousness notes all follies in men's virtual shells – disproportionately muscular figures and too recognizable physiognomies of movie stars glued to body-builders' bodies.
    Exception is made for the women though: they all are beautiful.
    I take a sip of Gin and lean on the table relaxed: oh it feels good…
    No real bar or restaurant can be compared with the virtual one. They always cook great here. You never have to wait to be served. The huge dose of alcohol won't cause hangover.
    But having a real life experience, one really can feel drunk… and subconsciousness dives into the alcohol drug cheerfully. They say that the body's natural narcotics – endorphines start being produced then. True or not, intoxication doesn't disappear instantly when one exits virtuality.
    – Sorry, may I please?… – the young girl sits down by my side. Blond hair, clean, slightly dim skin, a simple white suit, a little golden medallion on her neck: most likely, a program of some sort. She's pretty cute and thanks God, not recognizable: either she designed her face by herself or used some rare seen painting as a model or found a cute but not too familiar face in some movie.
    – Sure, – I turn to her. The bartender already gives her a glass of wine: 'Emperor', the Chilean one. This girl has a good taste.
    – I see you here pretty often, – informs the girl.
    DZZZ! the alarm signal in my head.
    – Amazing, – I note, – I don't visit this place so often really.
    – But I'm here almost always.
    Lies.
    I can exit virtuality right now and check a couple of dozens of control photos stored in the computer: the visitors of the bar for the last two months. It's always useful to remember new faces. But what for, I know well enough that I never met her before…
    – I was wearing different faces, – looks like the girl guesses my thoughts, – while you always wear the same one.
    – Changing faces is too expensive, – I begin my self-humiliation, – It's stupid to botch up Schwartzenegger or Stallone from yourself, and I can't afford hiring the image specialist.
    – The Deep itself is expensive enough.
    She calls virtuality with a Russian term and I like that…
    …But not her overall behavior…
    I shrug. What a strange talk.
    – Excuse me… you're Russian, right? – asks the girl.
    I nod. There are lots of Russians in virtuality: nowhere else in the world the computer time usage is controlled as poorly as in our country.
    – I'm sorry… – the girl bites her lips slightly, she is obviously excited, – Of course I'm terribly tactless but… What is your name?
    I understand.
    – Not Dmitry Dibenko. This is what interests you, right?
    The girl looks at my face intently and nods, then quickly drains her glass dry.
    – I'm not lying. Honest. – I say softly.
    – I believe you, – the girl nods to bartender, then reaches her hand out to me, – I'm Nadya.
    I shake her hand and introduce myself:
    – Leonid.
    So now we know each other and can be less ceremonious. The deep is casual: overly polite tone is offensive here.
    The girl casts her hair back from her forehead, the natural and graceful gesture, then gives her glass over to bartender; he refills it quickly. She looks around the hall.
    – How do you think, does he really visit virtuality?
    – I don't know. Probably. Are you a journalist, Nadya?
    – Yes, – she hesitates for a moment, then takes out a business card from her purse and gives it to me, – Here…
    The card is complete: not only Email, but also phone number, first and last name. Nadezhda Mesherskaya, the 'Money' magazine, a reporter. Windows-Home is silent, it means that the card is 'clean' – it's really just a card, without any hidden surprises. I put it in my pocket and nod:
    – Thanks.
    Sorry, it'll be no