"Garrett, Randall - The Hunting Lodge" - читать интересную книгу автора (Garrett Randall)

THE HUNTING LODGE
by Randall Garrett

"We'll help all we can," the Director said, "but if you're caught, that's all there is to it."
I nodded. It was the age-old warning: If you're caught, we disown you. I wondered, fleetingly, how many men had heard that warning during the long centuries of human history, and I wondered how many of them had asked themselves the same question I was asking:
Why am I risking my neck?
And I wondered how many of them had had an answer.
"Ready, then?" the Director asked, glancing at his watch. I nodded and looked at my own. The shadow hands pointed to 2250.
"Here's the gun."
I took it and checked its loading. "Untraceable, I suppose?"
He shook his head. "It can be traced, all right, but it won't lead to us. A gun which couldn't be traced almost certainly would be associated with us. But the best thing to do would be to bring the gun back with you; that way, it's in no danger of being traced."
The way he said it gave me a chill. He wanted me back alive, right enough, but only so there would be no evidence.
"O.K." I said. "Let's go."
I put a nice, big, friendly grin on my face. After all, there was no use making him feel worse than necessary. I knew he didn't like sending men out to be killed. I slipped the sleeve gun into its holster and then faced him.
"Blaze away!"
He looked me over, then touched the hypno controls. A light hit my eyes.
I was walking along the street when I came out of it, heading toward a flitter stand. An empty flitter was sitting there waiting, so I climbed in and sat down.
Senator Rowley's number was ORdway 63-911. I dialed it and leaned back, just as though I had every right to go there.
The flitter lifted perfectly and headed northwest, but I knew perfectly well that the scanners were going full blast, sorting through their information banks to find me.
A mile or so out of the city, the flitter veered to the right, locked its controls, and began to go around in a tight circle.
The viewphone lit up, but the screen stayed blank. A voice said: "Routine check. Identify yourself, please."
Routine! I knew better. But I just looked blank and stuck my right forearm into the checker. There was ashort hum while the ultrasonic scanners looked at the tantalum identity plate riveted to the bone.
"Thank you, Mr. Gifford," said the voice. The phone cut off, but the flitter was still going in circles.
Then the phone lit again, and Senator Rowley's faceЧthin, dark, and bright-eyedЧcame on the screen.
"Gifford! Did you get it?"
"I got it, sir," I answered quietly.
He nodded, pleased. "Good! I'll be waiting for you."
Again the screen went dark, and this time the flitter straightened out and headed northwest once more.
I tried not to feel too jittery, but I had to admit to myself that I was scared. The senator was dangerous. If he could get a finger into the robot central office of the flitters, there was no way of knowing how far his control went.
He wasn't supposed to be able to tap a flitter any more than he was supposed to be able to tap a phone. But neither one was safe now.
Only a few miles ahead of me was the Lodge, probably the most tightly guarded home in the world.
I knew I might not get in, of course. Senator Anthony Rowley was no fool, by a long shot. He placed his faith in robots. A machine might fail, but it would never be treacherous.
I could see the walls of the Lodge ahead as the flitter began to lose altitude. I could almost feel the watching radar eyes that followed the craft down, and it made me nervous to realize that a set of high-cycle guns were following the instructions of those eyes.
And, all alone in that big mansionЧor fortressЧsat Senator Rowley like a spider in the middle of an intangible web.

The public flitter, with me in it, lit like a fly on the roof of the mansion. I took a deep breath and stepped out. The multiple eyes of the robot defenses watched me closely as I got into the waiting elevator.
The hard plastic of the little sleeve gun was supposed to be transparent to X rays and sonics, but I kept praying anyway. Suddenly I felt a tingle in my arm. I knew what
it was; a checker to see if the molecular structure of the tantalum identity plate was according to government specifications in every respect.
Identity plates were furnished only by the Federal government, but they were also supposed to be the only ones with analyzers. Even the senator shouldn't have had an unregistered job.
To play safe, I rubbed at the arm absently. I didn't know whether Gifford had ever felt that tingle before or not. If he had, he might ignore it, but he wouldn't let it startle him. If he hadn't, he might not be startled, but he wouldn't ignore it. Rubbing seemed the safest course.
The thing that kept running through my mind wasЧhow much did Rowley trust psychoimpressing?
He had last seen Gifford four days ago, and at that time, Gifford could no more have betrayed the senator than one of the robots could. Because, psychologically speaking, that's exactly what Gifford had beenЧa robot. Theoretically, it is impossible to remove a competent psychoimpressing job in less than six weeks of steady therapy. It could be done in a little less time, but it didn't leave the patient in an ambient condition. And it couldn't, under any circumstances, be done in four days.
If Senator Rowley was thoroughly convinced I was Gifford, and if he trusted psychoimpression, I was in easy.
I looked at my watch again. 2250. Exactly an hour since I had left. The change in time zones had occurred while I was in the flitter, and the shadow hands had shifted back to accommodate.
It seemed to be taking a long time for the elevator to drop; I could just barely feel the movement. The robots were giving me a very thorough going over.
Finally, the door slid open and I stepped out into the lounge. For the first time in my life, I saw the living face of Senator Anthony Rowley.
The filters built-into his phone pickup did a lot for him. They softened the fine wrinkles that made his face look like a piece of old leather. They added color to his grayish skin. They removed the yellowishness from his eyes. In short, the senator's pickup filters took two centuries off his age.
Longevity can't do everything for you, I thought. But I could see what it could do, too, if you were smart and had plenty of time. And those who had plenty of time were automatically the smart ones.

The senator extended a hand. "Give me the briefcase, Gifford."