"08 - The SSR Sings the Blues" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

The door opened and closed silently and there was a guard, back turned,
standing close enough to touch. Which I did, tapping him on the shoulder.
He shrieked, jumped aside, turned, lifted his gun.

"Didn't mean to startle you," I said sweetly. "Afraid I got separated from
my party. The press group . . ."

"Sergeant, I got someone," he burbled into the microphone on his shoulder.
"Me, yeah, Private Izmet, post eleven. Right. Hold him. Got that." He
pointed the gun between my eyes. "Don't move?"

"I have no intention of that, I assure you."

I admired my fingernails, plucked a bit of fluff from my jacket, whistled;
tried to ignore the wavering gun muzzle. There was the thud of running feet
and a squad led by a grim looking sergeant rushed up.

"Good afternoon, Sergeant. Can you tell me why this soldier is pointing his
weapon at me? Or rather why you are all pointing your weapons at me?"

"Grab his case. Cuff him. Bring him." A man of few words, the sergeant.

The elevator they hustled me to had not been marked on the map issued to
the journalists. Nor had the map even hinted at the many levels below the
ground floor that penetrated deep into the bowels of the earth. The
pressure hit my eardrums as we dropped about as many floors down as you
usually go up in a skyscraper. My stomach sank as well as I realized I had
bitten off a good deal more than I could possibly chew. Pushed out at some
subterranean level, dragged through locked, barred gates, one after
another, until we finally reached a singularly depressing room.
Traditionally bare with unshielded lights and a backless stool. I sighed
and sat.

My attempts at conversation were ignored, as was my press pass. Which was
taken from me along with my shoes-then the rest of my clothes. I pulled on
the robe of itchy black burlap that they gave me, dropped back into the
chair and made no attempt to outstare my guards.

To be frank this was a kind of a low point, made even lower when the
effects of the calm-and-collected pill began to wear off. Just about the
time my morale hit bottom the loudspeaker gurgled incomprehensible
instructions and I was hurried down the hall to another room. The lights
and stool were the same-but this time they faced a steel desk with an even
steelier-eyed officer behind it. His glare spoke for him as he pointed to
my dissected clothing, bag, shoes.

"I am Colonel Neuredan - and you are in trouble."

"Do you always treat interstellar journalists like this?"