"H. Beam Piper - Day of the Moron" - читать интересную книгу автора (Piper H Beam)

flannel shirt and a .38 revolver on his hip.

"Ben Puryear: Dr. Rives," Melroy introduced. "Who's the mouthy character outside?"

"One of the roustabouts; name's Burris," Puryear replied. "Wash-room lawyer."

Melroy nodded. "You always get one or two like that. How're the rest taking it?"

Puryear shrugged. "About how you'd expect. A lot of kidding about who's got any intelligence to test.
Burris seems to be the only one who's trying to make an issue out of it."

"Well, what are they doing ganged up here?" Melroy wanted to know. "It's past oh-eight-hundred; why
aren't they at work?"

"Reactor's still too hot. Temperature and radioactivity both too high; radioactivity's still up around eight
hundred REM's."

"Well, then, we'll give them all the written portion of the test together, and start the personal interviews
and oral tests as soon as they're through." He turned to Doris Rives. "Can you give all of them the written
test together?" he asked. "And can Ben help youтАФdistributing forms, timing the test, seeing that there's
no fudging, and collecting the forms when they're done?"

"Oh, yes; all they'll have to do is follow the printed instructions." She looked around. "I'll need a desk,
and an extra chair for the interview subject."

"Right over here, doctor." Puryear said. "And here are the forms and cards, and the sound-recorder, and
blank sound disks."

"Yes," Melroy added. "Be sure you get a recording of every interview and oral test; we may need them
for evidence."

He broke off as a man in white coveralls came pushing into the office. He was a scrawny little fellow with
a wide, loose-lipped mouth and a protuberant Adam's apple; beside his identity badge, he wore a
two-inch celluloid button lettered: I.F.A.W. STEWARD.

"Wanta use the phone," he said. "Union business."
Melroy gestured toward a telephone on the desk beside him. The newcomer shook his head, twisting his
mouth into a smirk.

"Not that one; the one with the whisper mouthpiece," he said. "This is private union business."




Melroy shrugged and indicated another phone. The man with the union steward's badge picked it up,
dialed, and held a lengthy conversation into it, turning his head away in case Melroy might happen to be a
lip reader. Finally he turned.

"Mr. Crandall wants to talk to you," he said, grinning triumphantly, the phone extended to Melroy.