"Keith Laumer - The Monitors" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laumer Keith)

"No cause for alarm, ma'am," he was saying. His voice sounded like the announcer's. "Go to
your home, please, and - - "
"Whatta ya yakking, go home?" She had a voice like a dry bearing. "I'm onna way to the
byooty shop! I got a appointment, for a week, already. Outa my way, ya bum!" She swung a
pocketbook the size of first base at the invader's head.
The blow failed to connect. The swing skidded off into a vague kind of wave. The redhead's
mouth opened, but no sound came out. Then she turned and trotted back the way she had come.
The Monitor turned toward Blondel.
"Gentlemen, please move along now to your respective domiciles." He showed a nice smile, all
square chin and curly blond hair and shiny white teeth.
"The hell you say." Harry pushed past Blondel, paunchy but with adequate muscle under the
fat. "Who do you Reds think you're pushing around - - " He reached for the ma n in yellow, who
leaned aside just far enough and did something quick with his hands. Harry hadn't been touched,
but he came to a stop, swung around with a bewildered look on his face, then started off docilely
up the street.
"Hey, where's he going?" the Prof's pal asked.
"Home," Blondel guessed. "Just like the man said." He took the Prof's arm, eased him back
toward the door.
"Please go along to your homes now, gentlemen." The Monitor was still using the toothpaste
smile.
"Sure," Blondel said. "We live here. Rooms in back, you know." He backed through the door
into the bar, eased the door shut.
"Hey, what's -- ?" the Prof's friend started.
"Quiet, Freddy." The Prof gave Blondel a sharp look. "What now, Mr. Blondel?"
He went to the window and looked out past the cardboard cutout of a blonde model holding a
beer stein. A squad of ten or twelve of the men in yellow had formed a column of twos and were
heading off down the block. More of them were filing out of the blimp, lining up, moving out. Most
of the local citizens were on the move now, looking back over their shoulders as they went.
 "Ah- hah!" The Prof's friend pointed across the street. A squad of invaders were moving in
through the wideopen doors of the First National. "Now I get it!"
"This is more than a bank job," Blondel said, watching another crew marching up the post
office steps. "These boys mean business. Did you see the way they handled Harry?"
"How did these bums catch SAC with its pants down, after all the dough -- "
"Calmly, Freddy, calmly," the Prof soothed. "Do you suppose they're Russians?" he asked
Blondel.
"Try the phone; call the Times. Maybe they know what's going on."
"It took some brains to plan this caper," Freddy opined. "I didn't think them Ruskies had it in
'em."
The Prof returned from his errand. "A recorded message," he said. "Stand by your radio or TV
for the next announcement. Same thing when I tried the television station."
"Did you see them cops?" Freddy inquired. "They acted like they was getting their twenty- year
gold watches from the mayor."
"Look, fellows." Blondel chewed his lip, watching the last of the golden-hued troops
disembarking from the blimp, still hanging lightly above the stalled cars, its belly sweeping down
like a circus big top, closing off the sky. "They've st opped coming. It looks like there are only a
couple hundred of them."
"Per blimp," Prof amended. "And we don't know how many blimps."
"That ain't many - - not for a town this size," Freddy stated belligerently. "Let's rush 'em!"
"Wait a minute," Blondel demurred. "Let's not do anything hasty."
"He's right, Freddy," Prof agreed. "That airship - - it doesn't quite fit in with what I've