"Dick, Philip K - Solar Lottery v1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dick Phillip K)

"I'm a biochemist," Benteley answered savagely. "I'm looking for a class 8-8 position."

A faint touch of amusement twisted the girl's red lips. "Is that so? Interesting . . ." She shrugged her bare shoulders. "Swear him on, Peter."

The small man hesitated. Reluctantly, he stuck out his hand. "I'm Peter Wakeman," he said to Benteley. "This girl is Eleanor Stevens. She's Verrick's private secretary."

It wasn't exactly what Benteley had expected. There was a momentary silence as the three of them appraised one another.

"The MacMillan sent him on in," Wakeman said presently.

There's an open call for 8-8 people. But I think Verrick has no need for more biochemists; he's got enough already."

"What do you know about it?" Eleanor Stevens demanded. "It's none of your business; you're not running personnel."

"I'm using common sense." Wakeman moved very deliberately between the girl and Benteley. "I'm sorry," he said to Benteley. "You're wasting your time here. Go to the Hill hiring officesЧthey're always buying and selling biochemists."

"I know," Benteley said. "I've worked for the Hill system since I was sixteen."

"Then what do you want here?" Eleanor asked.

"Oiseau-Lyre dropped me."

"Go over to Soong."

"I'm not working for any more Hills!" Benteley's voice lifted harshly. "I'm through with the Hills."

"Why?" Wakeman asked.

Benteley grunted angrily. "The Hills are corrupt. The whole system's decaying. It's up for sale to the highest bidder . . . and bidding's going on."

Wakeman pondered. "I don't see what that matters to you. You have your work; that's what you're supposed to be thinking about."

"For my time, skill, and loyalty I get money," Benteley agreed. "I have a clean white lab and the use of equipment that costs more to build than I'll earn in a lifetime. I get status-insurance and total protection. But I wonder what the end result of my work is. I wonder what it's finally put to. I wonder where it goes."

"Where does it go?" Eleanor asked.

"Down the rat hole! It doesn't help anybody."

"Whom should it help?"

Benteley struggled to answer. "I don't know. Somebody, somewhere. Don't you want your work to do some good? I stood the smell hanging around Oiseau-Lyre as long as possible. The Hills are supposed to be separate and independent economic units; actually they're shipments and expense padding and doctored tax returns. It goes deeper than that. You know the Hill slogan: SERVICE IS GOOD AND BETTER SERVICE IS BEST. That's a laugh! You think the Hills care about serving anybody? Instead of existing for the public good, they're parasites on the public."

"I never imagined the Hills were philanthropic organizations," Wakeman said dryly.

Benteley moved restlessly away from the two of them; they were watching him as if he were a public entertainer. Why did he get upset about the Hills? Playing classified serf to a Hill paid off; nobody had complained yet. _But he was complaining._ Maybe it was lack of realism on his part, an anachronistic survival the child-guidance clinic hadn't been able to shake out of him. Whatever it was, he had taken as much as he could stand.

"How do you know the Directorate is any better?" Wakeman asked. "You have a lot of illusions about it, I think."

"Let him swear on," Eleanor said indifferently. "If that's what he wants, give it to him."