"c132" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

1:34 P.M., Tuesday, January 25, 2000
Agate, Colorado

The government had pushed hard at re-establishing mail delivery. Some senators argued they should use the mail system to deliver food, but this bill was gutted—amended to say "where feasible, used for food," being of course nowhere feasible—but Congress wasted no time in approving the mail's use for delivering draft notices. The IRS's computers were sufficiently operable and staffed, or made so. The last ten years worth of returns were quickly searched for people who had filled in the "occupation" box on their 1040 as "programmer," "computers," or similar, or chosen the relevant industry codes. In back rooms in the Capitol, last year's talk of replacing the IRS with a national sales tax dried up like a Kalihari watering hole under the noon sun. The IRS and all their snooping was clearly just too dang useful. Nate saw the pickup truck hovering around his mailbox as he was driving up from another unsuccessful search for Amber among the ruined lives in a refugee camp south of Castle Rock. The truck, a dusty old Dodge, puffed black smoke as it idled. The driver was fooling around with Nate's mailbox. By the time Nate pulled up, the truck had sped off in a belch of exhaust. Nate stood, hands on hips, wondering what someone would be doing around his mailbox. It wasn't likely to be a county grange meeting announcement. He wondered if he dared open the box. What if someone put a bomb in there? But, why would someone do that? Nobody would even think to open their mailbox. Maybe it was a note from Amber. He couldn't really see the driver. Maybe it was Amber herself! Or a courier on her behalf. Or, a bomb. Nate turned his head away and down, stretched out with a crutch as far out as he could, and popped the box open. Nothing blew up. He peered inside. A single letter lay face down. He grabbed it and turned it over. It bore a government eagle imprint instead of a stamp. "Under penalty of 20 years imprisonment or $1,000,000 fine or both,"—Now there's a friendly way to start a letter, Nate thought—"Nathan Eldridge Zamora is hereby commanded to report at 7:00 A.M. on Monday, January 31, 2000, to Building 17, United States Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs,..." "Like hell!" he said, and tore the letter up into bite-sized pieces. He threw the confetti into the air. "Like hell!"

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Chapter 13.2

1:34 P.M., Tuesday, January 25, 2000
Agate, Colorado

The government had pushed hard at re-establishing mail delivery. Some senators argued they should use the mail system to deliver food, but this bill was gutted—amended to say "where feasible, used for food," being of course nowhere feasible—but Congress wasted no time in approving the mail's use for delivering draft notices. The IRS's computers were sufficiently operable and staffed, or made so. The last ten years worth of returns were quickly searched for people who had filled in the "occupation" box on their 1040 as "programmer," "computers," or similar, or chosen the relevant industry codes. In back rooms in the Capitol, last year's talk of replacing the IRS with a national sales tax dried up like a Kalihari watering hole under the noon sun. The IRS and all their snooping was clearly just too dang useful. Nate saw the pickup truck hovering around his mailbox as he was driving up from another unsuccessful search for Amber among the ruined lives in a refugee camp south of Castle Rock. The truck, a dusty old Dodge, puffed black smoke as it idled. The driver was fooling around with Nate's mailbox. By the time Nate pulled up, the truck had sped off in a belch of exhaust. Nate stood, hands on hips, wondering what someone would be doing around his mailbox. It wasn't likely to be a county grange meeting announcement. He wondered if he dared open the box. What if someone put a bomb in there? But, why would someone do that? Nobody would even think to open their mailbox. Maybe it was a note from Amber. He couldn't really see the driver. Maybe it was Amber herself! Or a courier on her behalf. Or, a bomb. Nate turned his head away and down, stretched out with a crutch as far out as he could, and popped the box open. Nothing blew up. He peered inside. A single letter lay face down. He grabbed it and turned it over. It bore a government eagle imprint instead of a stamp. "Under penalty of 20 years imprisonment or $1,000,000 fine or both,"—Now there's a friendly way to start a letter, Nate thought—"Nathan Eldridge Zamora is hereby commanded to report at 7:00 A.M. on Monday, January 31, 2000, to Building 17, United States Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs,..." "Like hell!" he said, and tore the letter up into bite-sized pieces. He threw the confetti into the air. "Like hell!"


back | next home