"Simon Hawke - The Nine Lives of Catseye Gomez" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hawke Simon)

"I'm a houseguest. Name's Gomez."
"I am not programmed with any information concerning houseguests. Access to this unit is restricted without
the proper access code."
"Shit," I said.
"Incorrect code," said the computer.
Damn, I thought. Some computers had personalities that were all their own and you could reason with them,
even have a pleasant conversation, but the ones on the lower end of the scale could be frustratingly
simplistic. The damned things were so bloody literal-minded. And then I had a sudden flash of inspiration. I
said, "Lisa."
"Access confirmed," said the computer. "How may I assist you, Gomez?"
"Are you programmed with a telephone directory?" I asked.
"Affirmative. Do you wish it displayed?"
"Can you do a search and let me know if a certain number's listed?"
"Affirmative. Which number do you wish me to initiate a search for?"
"How about the building manager?"
"Working.
A moment later, it had the number, and I asked for the display. Bingo. There was a building manager on the
premises, in apartment 1-A, on the ground floor.
"Are you equipped with modem capability?" I asked.
"Affirmative. Do you wish me to dial the number?"
"Yeah, affirmative," I said. "Connect me."
"Working. ..."
A moment later, I could hear a phone ringing. It was picked up on the fifth ring. A sleepy-sounding voice said,
"Logan Towers, can I help you?"
"Sorry to wake you up," I said. "My name is Gomez, and I'm a guest of Mr. Solo's up in 10-C. Mr. Solo's out,
and I seem to be having a problem with the door. I can't get it open. I'd sure appreciate it if you could come up
and see if you can open it for me."
"The door won't open?"
"No, I can't open it."
"What'd you say your name was again?"
"Gomez. In 10-C."
He gave out a weary groan. "Okay, give me a minute, I'll be right up."
"Thanks. I appreciate it."
I had the computer disconnect, and then I shut it down, feeling very pleased with myself. The building
manager would now come up and let me out of the apartment. There was no question but that I would
appreciate it-the question was, would he? Somehow, I didn't think so. Don't ask me why, but it occurred to
me that he might take exception to being dragged out of bed at about 6:00 a.m. to go upstairs and let a cat
out of an apartment. I figured I'd better prepare myself for one rather irate customer.
He didn't take very long. He was up in only a few minutes, knocking at the door.
"Mr. Gomez?" The voice sounded fairly young.
"Yeah, that's right," I called out.
"Building manager, Mr. Gomez. The door seems to be locked."
"Yeah, I know. I can't get it open from in here. Try using your passkey."
I heard the key inserted into the lock, and then I heard it turn. The door opened and the guy stuck his head
in. He was younger than I'd thought, about college age, with a thick shock of blond hair that hung over his
forehead and down to his collar in the back, and wire-rimmed glasses. He had thrown on a black and gold
University of Colorado sweat shirt and a pair of faded jeans. His bare feet were tucked into an old, worn pair of
running shoes.
"There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with-" and then he noticed me sitting back on my haunches on the
floor and his eyes glanced past me for a moment. "Mr. Gomez?"