"Stan Nicholls - Throwing A Wobbly" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nicholls Stan)

Biddlecombe!'
'Sir?' he mumbled, throat parched, head throbbing.
Biddlecombe got straight to the point. 'You've got an assignment. And I
want you in situ ASAP.' His manner was crisp, strident, authoritative. As
usual.
'But, uhm, it's my day off,' Cramer protested weakly. 'I had leave owing,
remember, and - '
'We're in the throes of a national emergency, Cramer, a triple red alert
scenario. I shouldn't have to remind you of that.'
'No, but - '
'Everyone's expected to do their bit and you're no exception.'
'Of course, and normally I'd - '
'None of the other field operatives would dream of taking time off in the
current circumstances.'
'I'm sure they - '
'All hands to the pump, shoulders to the wheel, your country expects, that
kind of thing.'
Cramer sighed and gave in. 'What exactly do you want me to do, sir?' he
offered meekly.
'There's been another tip-off from a member of the public. You're the only
chap we can spare, and as it happens the incident took place not far from
you.'
'If it took place at all,' Cramer muttered.
'What? Speak up!'
'Just commenting on the unreliability of these so-called sightings, sir.'
'No need to remind me how untrustworthy civilians can be in such matters.
We both know our success rate has been less than substantial. '
'It's been less than anything at all as I understand it, sir. Zero, nil,
naught - '
'Yes, thank you, Cramer; I'm well aware of our lack of headway. As are the
cabinet and top brass, not to mention the Press. Which is all the more
reason to investigate every case. Now take down the details.'
Cramer fumbled for a notebook and pen.
Once that was over, Biddlecombe signed off with a hearty, 'Good show! I'll
expect your report no later than fifteen hundred hours, in person.'
The line went dead.
Cursing, Cramer tossed the notebook aside. Now he couldn't spend the day
with Melanie, as he'd promised, and her big event was this afternoon. But
if he really moved he might be able to see her briefly on his way back.
There was coverage of an athletics meeting on the TV. Elephantine
"runners" lumbered around the track at a snail's pace. It cut to a rotund
javelin thrower. Abundant flesh barely constrained by tortured lycra, he
managed to break into an amble. Feebly, he lobbed his spear. It landed an
arm's length in front of him. He collapsed gasping.
Cramer killed the picture and began easing out of bed. It creaked
ominously.
Clutching the adjacent table for support, he slowly manoeuvred his
massive, quivering bulk into a standing position. As he did so he caught a
glimpse of himself in the wall mirror. Shuddering, he was reminded of why
he got so drunk the previous evening. After pausing a few seconds to