"Harry Harrison - SSR 08 - The Stainless Steel Rat Sings the " - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

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

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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 security of the Mint and the
Interstellar Credits produced here."

"I've done nothing wrong."

"Everything that you have done has been wrong. Attempting to deceive our security with false
identification, stunning a guard, penetrating the Mint without supervision-these are all crimes under our