"HARRISON, Harry - 08 - The Stainless Steel Rat Sings The Blues (V1.0)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

vents, aircon units-and a goodsized smokestack puffing out pollution. Perfect.
The moneybag clunked as I dropped all my incriminating weapons and tools into
it. My belt buckle twisted open and I took out the reel and motor. Attached the
molebind plug from the suspension cord to the bag, then lowered it all down the
chimney. Reaching down as far as I could I secured the reel mechanism to the
inside of the pipe.
Done. It would wait there as long as needed, until all the excitement calmed
down. An investment waiting to be collected you might say. Then, armed only with
my innocence, I retraced my course back down the stairs and on to the ground
floor.
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?"
"Your identity is false." His voice had all the warmth of two rocks being grated
together. "Your shoes contain molebind projectors .
"There's no law against that!"
"There is on Paskonjak. There is a law against anything that threatens the