"Asimov, Isaac - Robot Mystery - Chimera" - читать интересную книгу автора (Asimov Isaac)

"No. A broken neck did that. She was dead before she got stuck in the ceiling."
Coren looked down at the rebreather. "Why? If everyone else was poisoned..." He looked around. "Where's the robot?"
"I've got it in an impound locker," Baxin said. "I didn't know where else to put it."
Sipha extended her hand. "Give me the tag. I'll take care of the robot. How long on autopsies?"
"Fifteen, twenty hours," Baxin said. "A few preliminaries sooner than that maybe. "
"What made the crack?" Coren asked. "It looks intentional. "
"It is," Baxin said. "Heat induction, industrial grade drill or welder, crystallized the metal, made it brittle."
"What kind?"
"We don't have it. There's nothing in here that would do that."
"Not even the robot?"
"No, I don't think so. Specialized tool, in my opinion."
Coren gave the hole in the roof a last glance, then left the bin.
When Sipha joined him, he said, "Doesn't make sense. Who broke her neck if Coffee didn't?"
She glanced at him. " 'Coffee'?"
"That's what she called the robot." He saw Sipha's expression. "Don't ask me, I don't know why. But who else could have broken her neck?"
"We'll check the bodies to see if time of death matches in all cases. But I still think you're wrong about the robot. Maybe it knew they were being poisoned--that's what it was trying to stop."
"How did it know? And who--"
"I know, who broke Nyom's neck. Maybe the same one who crushed that Brethe dealer?"
"And which one would that be? Which dead one in that bin who had never been to Kopernik before would that be?" Coren asked sarcastically. "Oh, wait, I know. The same one who cracked a hole in the bin with an inducer that no one can find. "
Sipha snarled at him. "I don't damn well know, Coren. So I repeat: will you help me?"
He nodded. "Oh, yes. I'll help you. No question." He mulled his options for a few seconds. "I'm going back down. You can handle the autopsies without me. Also, I'll need ID on all of them."
"What's down there?" Sipha frowned. Clearly, she had thought they would be working together for a few days.
"I have a couple of people to talk to. For one, the data troll who put me onto Nyom in the first place. I want to find those people Nyom was dealing with, and she's my best chance right now." He drew a deep breath. "And we're going to need a roboticist."
"There's a lab full of them here--"
"Do you trust them?"
Sipha scowled, then shook her head. "Not till I find out who killed my Brethe dealer. "
"I'll see if I can take care of that, then."
"I suppose you know a roboticist?"
"Of one, yes. I think it's best to stay away from anyone involved directly with the Spacer sector on Kopernik."
Sipha nodded. "I'll get you on the next shuttle back to D.C."
"No, not D.C. Lyzig District--that's where my informant lives. I'll take the suborbital back to D.C. after I talk to her. Send me the autopsy data when you have it."
"What are you going to say to Looms?"
Coren shook his head. "I'll worry about that when I see him."


THREE

T
he flight down frightened him more than the trip up to Kopernik. Perhaps it was the idea of falling, but Coren felt at the edge of panic from the moment the shuttle left dock till he walked, legs trembling, into the concourse at Lyzig Station. It did not make sense--he never reacted this way on a semiballistic--and he resented the idea that it was all psychosomatic. He went directly to a public restroom and rinsed his face in cold water, then sat in a stall till the sweating and nausea passed.
"Never again," he muttered as he finally gathered himself up. He checked his watch--twenty minutes wasted getting over his reaction--and left the restroom.
He rented a locker and shoved his one bag inside, then headed for the station lobby.
Lyzig buzzed with first-shift traffic. The warrens swarmed with people going to jobs or shops or meetings. Coren liked Lyzig: Clean, robust, a polished politesse substituted for the unmannered friendliness of other Eurosector districts, as if the residents were conscious of a long history--an important past they were obliged to honor.
At the station gate he flagged a taxi and gave his destination. The driver's eyebrows raised speculatively, but all he said was "Very good, sir," and moved into the vehicular lanes. The short ride ended at an ancient hotel. Coren tipped the driver and stepped out.
The taxi pulled away and Coren began walking in the opposite direction. His shakes were gone by now and he walked purposefully, in imitation of resident Lyzigers.
He had three options to find Jeta Fromm. He had already decided against contacting Data Recovery Systems, through which he had originally found her. He had to assume that whoever had killed Nyom had gotten the same information about the baley run, and that meant a competitor. He had no way of knowing yet where they would have gotten the data--it might have been Jeta Fromm herself, or her handlers, or some as yet undetermined third source. He could too easily reveal his interest by going through the usual channels.
The second option was not worth considering at this point. Local police could find her and pick her up, but he would be effectively destroying her career and perhaps hurting several other people associated with her. A significant part of the work he did depended on clandestine resources. Damaging them by "going local" could cost him his reputation and impair his ability to do his job. Using the local police, then, was a course of last resort.
His best option, then, was to find her himself. He had met with her twice, at different locations of her choosing. Her nervousness had bothered him, so he had traced her back to her hab--just in case he needed to find her quickly and confidentially. Like now.
The area he now entered was very old, and the signs of wear and neglect became more evident the further he walked. The fast pace and energy representative of Lyzig faded; people here were in no hurry to go anywhere--a few were even sitting in doorways, or gathered in small groups near shops or in the cramped public spaces that passed for parks in this part of the urbanplex.
Coren automatically imitated the lethargy around him, moving slower, keeping his head down. He tucked his hands in his pockets and searched the corridor signs till he found one marked BETRAGSTRAS. He walked down the narrower corridor to a steep metal staircase that ran up the windowless wall to his left. The ghosts of old graffiti discolored the surfaces, scrubbed endlessly by automated cleaners that, over time, failed to remove all the paint.
At the top of the stairs, Coren found a broad rooftop upon which stacks of single-unit cubicles formed a small, cramped village. Light glowed from open doorways, and the thick smell of cooking almost covered the odors of plastic and sweat and unprocessed waste.