"William Tenn - Lisbon Cubed" - читать интересную книгу автора (William Tenn)

"Thanks," Jones said with feeling. "I'm suffocating in this outfit."
Alfred chuckled again. He'd show these New Yorkers.
"Take it off. Be comfortable. Make yourself at home."
Jones nodded and unbuttoned the jacket of his gray sharkskin suit. Then he unнbuttoned the white shirt under it. Then he put his two forefingers into his chest, all the way in, and pulled his chest apart. He kept pulling until there was a great dark hole about ten inches wide.
A black spider squirmed out of the opening. Its round little body was about the size of a man's fist, its legs about the size and length of pipe stems. It crouched on Jones's chest, while the body from which it had emerged maintained its position in a kind of paralysis, the fingers still holding the chest apart, the back and legs still restнing comfortably in the chair.
"Whew!" said the spider. "That feels good."
Alfred found he couldn't stop chuckling. He finally managed to halt the noise from his mouth, but it kept on going in his head. He stared at the spider, at the stiff body from which it had come. Then, frantically, he stared at the others in the room, at Cohen, at Kelly, at Jane Doe.
They couldn't have looked less interested.
The hum from the briefcase on Kelly's knees abruptly resolved itself into words. Alfred's visitors stopped looking bored and leaned forward attentively.
"Greetings, Special Emissaries," said the voice. "This is Command Central speakнing. Robinson, to you. Are there any reports of significance?"
"None from me," Jane Doe told it.
"Nor me," from Kelly.
"Nothing new yet," said Cohen.
The spider stretched itself luxuriously. "Same here. Nothing to report."
"Jones!" ordered the voice from the briefcase. "Get back into your uniform!"
"It's hot, chief. And we're all alone in here, sitting behind what they call a locked door. Remember, they've got a superstition on Earth about locked doors? We don't have anything to worry about."
"I'll tell you what to worry about. You get into that uniform, Jones! Or maybe you're tired of being a Special Emissary? Maybe you'd like to go back to General Emissary status?"
The spider stretched its legs and performed what could only be described as a shrug. Then it backed carefully into the hole in the chest. The hole closed behind it. The body of Jones came to life and buttoned his shirt and jacket.
"That's better," said the voice from the briefcase on Kelly's knee. "Don't ever do that again while you're on duty."
"Okay, chief, okay. But couldn't we cool down this planet? You know, bring on winter, start a new ice age? It would make it a lot easier to work."
"And a lot easier to be detected, stupid. You worry about the big things like conнventions and beauty contests. We'll worry about the little things here, in Command Central, like arbitrarily changing the seasons and starting new ice ages. All right, Smith, how about you? What's your report?"
Alfred Smith shook the thick gathered wool out of his head, slid off the dresser, and on to his feet. He looked around wildly.
"Re-report?" A breath. "Why, nothingЧnothing to report."
"Took you a long time to make up your mind about it. You're not holding anyнthing back, are you? Remember, it's our job to evaluate information, not yours."
Alfred wet his lips. "N-no. I'm not holding anything back."
"You'd better not. One beauty contest you forget to tell us about and you're through, Smith. We still haven't forgotten that boner you pulled in Zagreb."
"Oh, chief," Jane Doe intervened. "It was only a local stunt to discover who was the tallest card-carrying Communist in Croatia. You can't blame Smith for missing that."
"We certainly can blame Smith for that. It was a beauty contest, within the definition of the term you were given. If Cohen hadn't stumbled across a mention of it in the Kiev Pravda, all hell could have broken loose, Remember that, Smith. And stop calling me chief, all of you. The name is Robinson. Remember it."
They all nodded, Alfred with them. He shot a mixed look of uncertainty and gratiнtude at Jane Doe.
"All right," the voice went on, somewhat mollified. "And to show you that I can hand out the boosts as well as the knocks, I want to commend Smith on his disguise. It's a little offbeat, but it rings trueЧand that's the main thing. If the rest of you only spent as much time and care on your uniform, we'd be in the home stretch in no time." The voice paused and took on an oily, heavily whimsical quality. "Before you could say 'Jack Robinson.' "
They all laughed dutifully at that one, even Alfred.
"You think Smith did a good job on his disguise, don't you, chief, I mean, Mr. Robinson?" Jane Doe asked eagerly, as if she wanted to underline the fact for everyone.
"I certainly do. Look at that suit, it's not just any old suit, but a tweed jacket and flannel pants. Now that's what I call using your imagination. His chin isn't just a chin, it's a deft chin. Very good. The color of his hairЧfirst-rate. The only thing I might possibly object to is the bow tie. I'd say a good solid rep tie, regular length, would be a little less chancy, a little less likely to attract attention. But it feels right, and that's the main thingЧthe feel of the disguise. In this business, you either have an instinct for merging with the population of the planet, or you don't. I think Smith has it. Good work, Smith."
"Thank you," Alfred mumbled.
"All right, ohЧer, Robinson," Mr. Jones said impatiently. "It's a good uniform-disguise. But it's not that important. Our work is more important than how we look."
"Your work is how you look. If you look right, you work right. Take yourself, for example, Jones. A more nondescript, carelessly assembled human being, I don't think I've ever come across before. What are you supposed to beЧMr. American-Man-in-the-Street?"
Mr. Jones looked deeply hurt. "I'm supposed to be a Brooklyn druggist. And beнlieve me, the uniform is plenty good enough. I know. You should see some of these druggists."
"Some, Jones, but not most. And that's my point."
There was a throat-clearing sound from Mr. Cohen. "Don't want to interrupt you, Robinson, but this isn't supposed to be a long visit we're having with Smith. We just dropped up, kind of."
"Right, Cohen, right on the old button. All right, everybody ready for instructions?"
"Ready," they all chorused, Alfred coming in raggedly on the last syllable.
"Here we go then. Cohen, you're back on your old assignment, keeping careful check on any new beauty contests scheduled anywhere in the country, with special attention to be paid to New York, of course. Kelly, you're to do the same with convenнtions. Jane Doe and John Smith will continue to look into anything that might be a camouflaged attempt."
"Anything particular in mind?" Jane Doe asked.
"Not for you at the moment. You just keep making the rounds of beauty parlors and see if you stumble across something. Smith, we have a special item we'd like you to look into. There's a fancy dress ball of the plumbers of the New York City area. Drop down there and see what you can see. And let us know if you hit it. Fast."
Alfred kept his voice determinedly casual. "What do you want me to look out for?"
"Well, if you don't know by this timeЧ" the voice from the briefcase rose impaнtiently. "Door prizes, an award for the best costume, even a contest for Miss Pipe Wrench of 1921 or whatever year Earth is in right now. I don't think we have to worry about that last, though. It would be too damn obvious, and we haven't hit anything obvious yet"
"How about me?" Jones wanted to know.
"We'll have special instructions for you pretty soon. There may be a new angle."
They all looked interested at that, but the voice from the briefcase did not seem disposed to elucidate further.
"That will be all," it said unequivocally. "You can start leaving now."