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

"Do you really think it could have been one of my people?"
"Not alone, no. But it's clear that whoever it was had a thorough knowledge of your systems."
"Of course. Um...do you know how they broke in?"
"Once the power was down and the security net with it," the inspector explained, "a hole was cut through the point where there would least likely be a back-up alarm they could know nothing about--nobody alarms cafeterias--and from there they went through the clinic, cutting the rest of the power and finally deactivating even your passive monitoring systems."
Ortalf blinked. "It could take days to get everything back up." He stared off toward a wall, his thoughts an anxious jumble. "How many are missing?" he asked.
"Twenty-four, I think. All from Ward Five."
"All?"
The inspector nodded. "Who were they?"
"I don't...you mean, who do we maintain in Ward Five? A special group, I'm afraid. Very special."
"Isn't everyone in your facility special?"
Ortalf studied the inspector, unsure if he heard sarcasm in the man's voice. The face, though, remained impassive.
"Some more than others," Ortalf said. "Those--Ward Five--have the most severe situations."
"UPDs, aren't they?"
"Yes. Untreatable Physiological Dysfunctions."
"Lepers."
Ortalf started. "I'm sorry?"
"Nothing." Impatience flashed across the inspector's face. "Ancient reference. It's not important. Tell me, can you think of any reason someone would want to kidnap them?"
"No."
"Blackmail? Ransom?"
"I doubt any of them will live long enough outside their matreches to be of any use in that regard. "
"Why is that?"
"The matreches--each one is specifically modified to its occupant. They're unique, like the individuals they support. They change over time, with the condition of their charge. It would be nearly impossible to duplicate those specifications in another unit quickly enough to save a removed occupant. I have no doubt that a number of them are dead already."
"I see. That leaves revenge. Who were they?"
"Revenge?" Ortalf stood. "You're joking! What could any of these children have done--"
"Not them," the inspector said calmly. "Their parents."
"Their histories are completely confidential. Inaccessible. "
"Really? You do that as efficiently as your employee background checks?"
"I'm the only one who can access those records."
"And will you inform the parents when you've done so, to let them know that their children have been lost?"
Ortalf, uncomfortable, sat down and shook his head. "That's not the arrangement we have."
"They don't want to know, do they? That's why you have them in the first place. "
"You have to understand, a lot of them have no family to begin with. "
"Discards. Abandoned."
"Yes."
"I'd be willing to wager that many of those whose records are so carefully sealed are children with families."
The inspector stood, and for a moment Ortalf expected to be struck. He closed his eyes and waited, but the blow never came. When he looked up, the inspector stood in the doorway, his back to the director.
"The records will be required," the inspector said. "Please make yourself available for further questioning."
Ortalf watched the man walk away. Nearly a minute passed before he realized that he still did not know the inspector's name. At that moment, he was just as glad not to.


TWENTY-FIVE YEARS LATERЕ



ONE

C
oren Lanra watched from behind a grime-encrusted refuse bin in the recess of an old, unused loading dock. A sneeze threatened, teased by sharp odors and the chill air. Across the wide alley, members of a third-shift crew emerged from an unmarked door. Even if they saw him they would pass him off as one of the ubiquitous warren ghosts, homeless and destitute, that haunted the districts surrounding Petrabor Spaceport. Coren wore a shabby, ankle-length gray-black coat over worn coveralls; four days' beard darkened his pale face beneath oily, unwashed hair. He itched.
Three hours still remained in the third shift. Coren counted fifteen people through the door--all but one of the full crew compliment of the largely automated warehouse. They were unlikely to get into trouble--Coren recognized their supervisor among them, marked by the thick silver rings around his upper arms. They strode noisily up the alley, boots crunching on scattered debris, laughter echoing off the walls, heading for a home kitchen or a bar. They rounded a corner. Coren listened till their voices came as whispers in the distance.
He dropped from the lip of the bay and hurried to their exit door, propped open by a thin sheet of plastic he'd stuck there earlier to jam the lock and disable the tracking sensor that kept a log of when the door was 'used. Just inside, he found an ID reader set in a heavy inner door. He slipped his forged card into the slot and waited to see if he had gotten what he had paid for.