"L. Timmel Duchamp - Quinn's Deal" - читать интересную книгу автора (Duchamp L Timmel)

thought of the kind of deal the hospital would extort from him if he did manage to damage it. The
supervisory tech handed him a card. ? You can go now, Mr. Quinn,? she said. ? If you notice any
distortion of your vision, or any other neurological symptoms, be sure to call that number for an
appointment. Otherwise, we'll send you a reminder for a recall examination in six months.? The tech
opened the door, stepped out into the hall, and gesturing, added, ? You go right, and then take another
right at the first intersection, and the main elevator will be right there.?

? Which eye has the implant?? Quinn said angrily. ? For godsake, it's my eye, lady, I have a right to
know!?

The tech mustered a feeble, tepid smile that barely moved a muscle in her stiff, pasty pink face. ? I'm sure
you do have a right to know, Mr. Quinn, but I don't have the answer, and since some of the procedures
we do here are performed in test cases, which require that the participants be uncertain of just what was
done, even if I did know, I wouldn't be permitted to tell you without prior authorization.?
Quinn would have charged straight down to the Bursar's Office to beard Penneman in his den, but he
couldn't do that without missing the appointment that really mattered, in Gene Therapy. So he left the
twelfth floor and went down to the ninth. The appointment was brief. All they did was take a lot of blood
from him and tell him they'd be in touch as soon as they had done the analysis and were ready to make
the repair. Quinn felt cheated, that the other side of the deal should pay off before his side. (But of
course, Penneman had told him it would right up front.)

When Quinn left the elevator on the first floor, he found an orange line almost at once and followed it to
the Bursar's Office. The teller had a line of about half-a-dozen people. While Quinn waited, he began to
doubt that the teller would grant him access to the inner office just to have a question answered. Silently
he phrased and rephrased sentences demanding that he be allowed to speak to Penneman. The teller was
a machine; it would respond only to a limited number of key expressions. Perhaps he ought just to ask
for human assistance, and then when the robot opened the steel door to admit him, simply make a break
for Penneman's office?

After about fifteen minutes, Quinn got his turn. ? Welcome to the Bursar's Office. Please insert your
Public Identity Card in the intake slot, magnetic strip down,? the teller said.

Quinn cleared his throat. ? I require human assistance,? he said.

? Please insert your Public Identity Card in the intake slot, magnetic strip down,? the teller repeated.

Quinn sighed. The damned thing was probably programmed to ignore comments made before plastic
was inserted. That made sense. Quinn fed his card into the intake slot.

? L. Quinn, your account has a balance of zero.? The machine beeped; Quinn's plastic card popped
back through the outtake slot.

Quinn slammed his fist against the teller. ? Shit!? he yelled.

The machine beeped again. It said, ? Please remove your plastic identity card from the outtake slot.?

Quinn snatched his card and went to stand against the wall. All right, he'd wait. Surely someone was
going to need ? human assistance? sometime soon. The people queuing slid him uneasy looks. He could
almost see them wondering if he was a mental case who'd somehow gotten past security into the hospital,
demanding treatment or drugs or something...