"Harrison, Harry- The Stainless Steel Rat Sings the Blues" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

overburdened academics can afford it and not even notice it. I'll get that list
for you."
He unclipped his phone from his belt, shouted a multi-digit number into it, then
barked some brief commands. Before I had finished my coffee the printer hummed
to life in the office; sheets of paper began to pile up in the bin. We went
through them and ticked off a number of possibilities. There were no names, just
code numbers. When this was done I passed the list back to the Admiral.
"We'll need complete files on all the marked ones."
"That is classified and secret information."
"And you are the Admiral and you can get it."
"I'll get it-and censor it. There is no way I am going to let you know any
details of my Security Department."
"Keep your secrets-I couldn't care less." Which was of course an outright lie.
"Give them code names as well as numbers, conceal their identities. All I want
to know is their musical abilities, and will they be any good in the field when
the going gets rough."
This took a bit of time. I went for a long jog to loosen the muscles. Then,
while my clothes were being zapped clean in the vacuum washer, I took a hot
shower followed by a cold one. I made a mental note to get some more clothes
soon-but not until this operation was up and running. There was no escaping that
deadly clock that was ticking off the seconds to doomsday.
"Here is the list," the Admiral said when I entered the office. "No names, just
numbers. Male agents are identified by the letter A and . . ."
"Let me guess-the females are B?"
A growl was his only response; he completely lacked any sense of humor. I
flipped through the list. Slim pickings among the ladies who ran the gamut from
B1 to B4. Pipe-organ player, not very likely, harmonica, tuba-and a singer.
"I'll need a photograph of B3. And what do these other entries after B1 mean?
19T, 908L, and such."
"Code," he said, grabbing the sheet away from me. "It translates as skilled in
hand-to-hand combat, qualified marksman on hand weapons, six years in the field.
And the rest is none of your business."
"Thanks, wonderful, you're a big help. I sure could use her but not if she has
to carry the pipe organ on her back. Now let us make some selections from the
male list and get the photos coming. Except for this one, A19. No photograph-I
just want him here soonest, in the flesh.".
"Why?"
"Because he is a percussionist and plays a molecular synthezier. Since I know
next to nothing about music he is going to teach me my job in this pickup band.
A19. will show me the ropes, then record the numbers and set up the machines to
play the different hunks of music. I'll just smile and press buttons. Speaking
of machines-does your highly secret service have electronic repair facilities on
this planet?"
"That is classified information."
"Everything about this operation is classified. But I'll still need to do some
electronic work. Here or someplace else. All right?"
"Facilities will be made available."
"Good. And tell me-what is a gastrophone, or a bagpipe?"
"I haven't the slightest idea. Why?"
"Because they are listed here as musical skills or instruments or something.