"Harry Harrison - SSR 02 - The Stainless Steel Rat's Revenge" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

about this piece of work was going to be easy.
My car darted out of the rushing traffic, dived down into another tunnel
entrance and drew to a stop before an ornately decorated doorway. The great
golden letters Zlato-Zlato were inscribed over the entrance which, in
Cliaandian, might be translated as luxury. This was a pleasant change. A
beribboned, jeweled and elegant doorman rushed forward to open the door, then
stopped and stamped away and his place was taken by a bullet-necked individual
in a dark gray uniform. Little silver crossed knife-and-battle-ax insignia
were on both shoulders and his buttons were silver skulls. Somehow, not very
encouraging.
"I am Pacov," this depressing figure mumbled. "Your bodyguard."
"A pleasure to meet you, sir, a real pleasure."
I climbed out, carrying my own bags it will be noted, and followed the
grim back of my watchdog into the lobby of the hotel, which is what it proved
to be. My identification was accepted with a maximum of discourtesy, a room
assigned, a bellboy reluctantly prodded into showing me the way and off we
went. My status as a theoretically respected offworld sales representative got
me into the establishment, but that did not mean that I had to like it. My
wasp colors branded me an alien, and alien they were going to keep me.
The quarters were luxurious, the bed soft, the bugs enthusiastically
present. Sound and optic, they seemed to be built into every fitting and
fixture. Every other knob on the knobbed furniture was a microphone and the
light bulbs turned to follow me with their beady little eyes when I moved.
When I went into the bath to shave an optical eye looked back at me through
the lightly silvered mirror and there was another optical pickup in the end of
my toothbrush--no doubt to spy out any secrets lurking in my molars. All very
efficient.
They thought. It made to laugh, and I did, turning it into a snort when it
emerged so my patient bodyguard would not be suspicious. He pad-padded after
me wherever I went in the spacious apartment. No doubt he would sleep at the
foot of my bed when I retired.
And all of this was of no avail. Love laughs at locksmiths--and so does
Jim diGriz. Who knows an incredible amount, if you will excuse my seeming
immodesty, about bugging. This was a case of massive overkill. So there were a
lot of bugs. So what do you do with all that information? Computer circuitry
would be completely useless in an observational situation like this one, which
meant that a large staff of human beings would be watching, recording and
analyzing. "There is a limit to the number of people who can be assigned to
this kind of work because a geometric progression soon takes place with
watchers watching watchers until no one is doing anything else. I am sure
there was a large staff keeping a keen eye on me, foreigners were rare enough
to enjoy this luxury. Not only would my quarters be bugged but the areas I
normally passed through, ground cars and such.
The entire city could not be bugged, nor was there reason to do so. All I
had to do was act my normal humble cover-role self for awhile until I found
the opportunity to leave the bugged areas. And cook up a plan that would
permit my complete disappearance once I was out of sight. I would have only
one chance at this; whatever plan I produced would have to work the first time
out or I would be a very dead rat.
Pacov was always there, watching my every motion. He was watching when I