"FWLS43" - читать интересную книгу автора (A Future We'd Like to See)

"Please be aware, Mr. Pickstile, that we were never here,
and any attempts on your behalf to relate our non-being here to
others could result in summary punishments of a mortal nature."

Oooh, a college grad. "That's not a threat," I noted.

"Yes it is, Mr. Pickstile."

"That's 'Flip'. And no, a threat would be 'If you EVER even
fucking CONSIDER telling anybody we were here, your internal
organs will be chopped into slices 1/16th of an inch thick and
served to large dogs, with the resulting dogshit incinerated in
the nuclear fires of a white star.' You just fed me legalese.
Whatever... you didn't come here for an insult lesson. What is
it you need?"

The corporate boy seemed thrown off a bit by my bluntness.
Well, the Flipster was never particularly subtle. Ever. He
shrugged to his fellow clones and motioned for the ones outside
to join him. (No, we hadn't mastered cloning technology yet.
I'm trying to make a comparison or something.)

They wheeled in a cargo-crate rack. One of those cheesy
ancient two wheel jobbies, hand pushed. A lumpy object on the
rack was covered with a red sheet.

"We represent the Tiddlywink Recording Company," the company
man said, handing me his business card. "We need you to make
repairs and return this patient to a fully working condition. We
will pay whatever you want provided that the operation is a
success."

My favorite kind of check; a blank one! "Certainly! What
seems to be the problem here?"

They pulled off the sheet.

My grin fell.

"Is that who I think it is?"

"If you think it's Chuck Corbins, you're right," the corp
stated.

"Now, correct me if I'm wrong," I said, idly scratching at
my desk with a scalpel, "But according to all the papers, Chuck
blew off his head with a level two blaster in C'atel three days
ago."

"That is correct."