"Spider Robinson - The Magnificent Conspiracy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robinson Spider)

THE MAGNIFICENT CONSPIRACY

I

By the time I had pulled in and put her in park, alarm bells were going off all over
my subconscious so I just stayed put and looked around.
After a minute and a half, I gave up. Everything about the place was wrong.
Even the staff. Reserved used-car salesmen are about as common as affable
hangmenтАФbut I had the whole minute and a half to myself, and as much longer as I
wanted. The man semivisible through the dusty office window was clearly aware of
my arrival, but he failed to get up from his chair.
So I shut off the ignition and climbed out into un-air-conditioned July, and by
God even the music was wrong. It wasn't Muzak at all; it was an old Peter, Paul and
Mary album. How can you psych someone into buying a clunker with music like
that? Even when I began wandering around kicking tires and glancing under hoods
he stayed in the office. He seemed to be reading. I was determined to get a reaction
now, so I picked out the classiest car I could see (eas-ily worth three times as much
as my Dodge), hotwired her and started her up. As I'd expected, it fetched himтАФbut
he didn't hurry. Except for that, he was standard-issue salesmanтАФwhich is like
saying, "Except for the sun porch, it was a standard issue fighter jet."
"Sorry, mister. That one ain't for sale." I looked disappointed.
"Already spoken for, huh?"
"Nope. But you don't want her."
I listened to the smooth, steady rumble of the engine. "Oh, yeah? Why not? She
sounds beautiful."
He nodded. "Runs beautiful, tooтАФnow. Feller sold it to us gimmicked 'er with
them pellets you get from the Whitney catalog. Inside o' five hundred miles you
wouldn't have no more rings than a spinster."
I let my jaw drop.
"She wouldn't even be sittin' out here, except the garage is full up. Could show
you a pretty good Chev, you got your heart set on a convert-ible."
"Hey, listen," I broke in. "Do you realize you could've kept your mouth shut and
sold me this car for two thousand flat?"
He wiped his forehead with a red handkerchief "Yep. Couple year ago, I
would've." He hitched his glasses higher on his nose and grinned sud-denly. "Couple
year ago I had an ulcer."
I had the same disquieting sensation you get in an earthquake when the ground
refuses to behave properly. I shut the engine off. "There isn't a single sign about the
wonderful bargains you've got," I complained. "The word `honest' does not appear
anywhere on your lot. You don't hurry. I've been here for three minutes and you
haven't shaken my hand and you haven't tried to sell me a thing and you don't hurry.
What the hell kind of used-car lot is this?"
He looked like he was trying hard to explain, but he only said, "Couple of year
ago I had an ulcer," again, which explained nothing. I gave up and got out of the
convertible. As I did so, I noticed for the first time an index card on the dashboard
which read $100. "That can't be the price," I said flatly. "Without an engine she's
worth more than that."
"Oh, no," he said, looking scandalized. "That ain't the price. Couldn't be: price
ain't fixed."
Oh. "What determines the price?"