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

"Well," Blondel added. "I guess I'd better get moving. It'll be dark in seven or eight hours."
"Yeah," Freddy nodded. "Maybe six and a half."
"If they should, ah, apprehend you," Prof cautioned, "tell them whatever they want to know.
Don't worry about us."
"Yeah, we'll hold the fort back here." Freddy squared his shoulders.
"I mean, if you want me, to wait a while ... " Blondel said.
"The sooner you make your try the better chance you got," Freddy said. "When you get
through, tell 'em me and Prof is standing, by our posts, come what may."
"I mean, if you really think I'd be jeopardizing the defense effort -- " Blondel paused
expectantly.
 "Go get 'em, Tiger," Freddy said, and hiccupped.
"Each man to his own chosen duty." Prof clapped Blondel on the shoulder. "We'll think none the
less of you for it."
"Hey, I'm the one that's going on the dangerous mission," Blondel objected.
"As to that, who's to say?" Prof said wisely, and handed his glass to Freddy for a refill.
"A guy could take offense at a crack like that," Freddy said darkly.
"If he didn't have a bad wrist!" Blondel snapped. "Well, so long, fellows. See you in a
concentration camp." He went to the bar, slipped a fifth of green- label into his side pocket, and
soft-footed it to the door at the back.
At the end of the alley Blondel peered out at a milling throng of citizens among whom the tall,
smiling figures of the Monitors moved confidently, giving instructions, shaping up the crowd,
visibly bringing order out of chaos.
"Are you saved, son?" a loud voice boomed at Blondel's elbow. He started violently, turned to
face a chubby-jowled, florid-faced man in soiled cuffs and a drab suit of unfashionable cut.
"Well, I'm working on it," Blondel countered. "But keep your voice down -- "
"Have "you taken thought for your soul this morning?" the stranger pressed on. "How do you
stand up in Heaven?"
"Right now I'm more concerned about my neck," Blondel said impatiently. A finger like a Polish
sausage shot out to point at Blondel's chin. "Son, I'm going to pretend you never said that! Now
let's pray a few words -- "
"Pardon me." Blondel side- stepped him. "I'm in a hurry - - "
The finger hooked his lapel. "In too big a hurry to hear the word of God?"
"Sorry; I didn't recognize you. Look - - "
"You look, son! Ah, they are arriven among us! Down on your knees, boy! -- "
Blondel fended off the heavy hands that had landed on his shoulders.
"Look, I have things to do -- "
"Behold the angels of the Lord!" The hands gripped him, aimed him toward the street. "There
they are, wearing their golden raiment! Ah, rejoice, son, for they have come to bring the heavenly
light to us sinners!"
"Speak for yourself, pops," Blondel retorted. "Personally, I take a different view of matters -- "
"How's that! You utter defiance of the Lord?" The hands jumped to Blondel's throat; they were
large, horny hands, and they closed with the force of grappling hooks. Blondel brought his clasped
fists up in a swing that broke the hold, simultaneously ramming a knee into the evangelist's
midriff. The latter doubled over, clutching himself.
"Praise God!" he shouted. "Just wait till I get unfolded here, you shifty son of a spotted pup,"
he added in a lower tone, "and I'll bend you into a pretzel."
Blondel sidled past him, stepped out, and mingled with the crowd. Some of the herded citizens,
he noted, seemed bewildered, moving along in a state of shock. Others, wearing expressions of
mild interest, craned for a better view of the yellow- clad VIP's. At a street corner, Blondel paused
while a minor traffic jam was sorted out by efficient Monitors.