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

"And if I did?" Alfred asked eagerly. "If I did wish to claim a relationship?"
"Then it would be necessary for you to establish proof, sir."
"I see. Well, thank you very much." He hung up.
Where was he now? This John Smith had registered here, evidently under a previнous agreement, as his room was to provide the meeting place for the entire group. Then he had walked out one day and not returned.
Since the disguises were subject to frequent change, when another Smith had regнistered in the same room, the spies assumed it was their man. They may not even have known of the hiatus between the two Smiths.
What had happened to John Smith? Had he defected to the United States governнment? To the United Nations? Hardly. There would be an F.B.I, man, a small army unit staked out in the room in that case, when John Smith's friends showed up.
No, he had just disappeared. But was he dead, killed in some freak accident while crossing a bridgeЧthat would account for his body not being recoveredЧor was he only temporarily away, working on some newly discovered angle for his interplanнetary organization?
And what would happen to Alfred when he returned? The young man on the bed shivered. Espionage groups, he recalled from the novels he had read, tended to a sort of hatchet-man justice. Obviously, they would not let an Earthman with knowledge of their existence and operations go on living.
Then, obviously, he had to get help.
But from where? The police? The F.B.I.? He shivered again at the picture evoked; himself, somewhat embarrassed, stammering a bit, not quite remembering all the details, telling this story to a hard-faced desk sergeant.
An interplanetary invasion, Mr. Smith? From Mars? Oh, not from MarsЧfrom where then? Oh, you don't quite know, Mr. Smith? All you're sure of is that it's an interplanetary invasion? I see. And how did you happen to hear of this on your first day in New York? Oh, four people came up to your hotel room and told you about it? Very interesting. Very, very interesting. And their names were Mr. Cohen, Mr. Kelly, Mr. Jones, and Jane Doe? And your name is Smith, isn't it? And all we have to do to prove your story is find the address behind one of these telephone numbers, cut open the person in whose name the phone is registered, and find a big black spider inside...
"No!" Alfred groaned aloud. "Not that wayЧI wouldn't have a chance!"
He needed proofЧtangible proof. And facts. Mostly he needed facts. Who were these spiders, what was their home planet, when were they planning to invade, what kind of weapons did they have at their disposalЧstuff like that. And lots and lots of data about their organization here on Earth, especially in America.
How did you get such data? You couldn't askЧthat would be the surest way to expose yourself as a bona fide human with nothing more interesting inside you than a length or so of intestine and a couple of ribs.
But they'd given him an assignment. Something about a plumber's fancy dress ball. Now, obviously an assignment like that concerned their plans, their organizaнtion. Obviously.
He grabbed for the phone.
"Desk? This is Mr. Smith in 504. Yes, Mr. Smith again. Listen, how do I find out where the plumbers are in New York?"
"If the plumbing in your room is out of order, sir," the smooth, patient voice exнplained, "the hotel will send up aЧ"
"No, no, no! I don't want a plumber, I want plumbers, all of them! The New York plumbers, how do I find them?"
He distinctly heard lips being licked at the other end as this question was digested and then, aside, a whispered comment, "Yeah, it's 504, again. We got a real beauty in that room this time. I don't envy the night man tonight, let me tell you!" Loudly and clearly, if just a shade less smoothly, the voice replied: "You will find a classified teleнphone directory on the desk near your bed, sir. You can look up plumbers under P. Most of the plumbers in Manhattan are listed there. For plumbers in Brooklyn, the Bronx, Queens, and Staten Island, I would suggestЧ"
"I don't want plumbers in Brooklyn or the Bronx! I don't even want plumbers inЧ" Alfred Smith drew a deep breath. He had to get a grip on himself! The fate of the entire planet, of the entire human race, depended on his keeping his head. He forced his mind backward, inch by inch, off the plateau of hysteria it had mounted. He waited until his voice was calm.
"This is the problem," he began again, slowly and carefully. "There is a fancy dress ball of the plumbers of the New York area. It's being held somewhere in the city toнnight, and I'm supposed to be there. Unfortunately, I've lost my invitation and it contained the address. Now, how do you think I could go about finding where the ball is going to be?" He congratulated himself on the swiftness of his thinking. This was really being a counterspy!
Pause. "I could make some inquiries, sir, through the usual channels, and call you back "And aside: "Now he says he's a plumber and he wants to go to a fancy dress ball. Can you beat that? I tell you in this business..." And to him: "Would that be satisfactory, sir?"
"Fine," Alfred Smith told him enthusiastically. "That would be fine."
He hung up. Well, he was getting the hang of this espionage business. Nothing like a sales background for practice in quick thinking and quick talking.
He didn't have to report to the office until tomorrow. That gave him this afternoon and this evening to save the human race.
Who would have thought when he was offered a job in New York with the BlakSeme Hosiery Company ("Men Notice BlakSemesЧThey're so Shockingly Stocking!") what tremendous stakes he'd be playing for the very day of his arrival? Of course, BlakSeme knew what kind of man he was, they knew he was executive timber or they'd never have hired him right out from under PuzzleKnit, their biggest competitor. He'd made quite a name for himself, Alfred Smith was modestly willing to admit, in the Illinois terнritory. Highest sales increases for three years running, steadiest repeat orders for five. But to PuzzleKnit Nylons ("PuzzleKnit Attracts Their Attention and Keeps Them Guesнsing"), he had just been a top-notch salesman: it had taken BlakSeme, with their upper-bracket, Madison-Avenue orientation, to see him as a possible district sales manager.
BlakSeme alone had seen he was big-league material. But even they had not guessed how big a league it was in which he was destined to play.
The desk clerk called back. "I find, sir, that there is a fancy dress ball of the boss plumbers and steamfitters of the metropolitan New York area. It's at Menshevik Hall on Tenth Avenue at eight o'clock tonight. The theme of the ball is the ancien regime in France, and only people in pre-French-Revolution costumes will be admitted. Would you like the name of a place near the hotel where you can rent the right costume for the occasion?"
"Yes," Alfred Smith babbled. "Yes, yes, yes!" Things were beginning to click! He was on the trail of the aliens' organization!
He went out immediately and hurriedly selected a Due de Richelieu outfit. Since some small alterations were necessary, he had time to get dinner before the costume would be delivered to his hotel. He ate carefully and nutritiously; this was going to be a big night. His reading matter throughout the meal was a booklet he'd picked up in the outfitting place, a booklet giving the descriptions and background of all the cosнtumes available for this periodЧsixteenth-to eighteenth-century France. Any fact might be the vital clue...
Back in his room, he tore off his clothes and pulled on the rented apparel. He was a little disappointed at the result. He did not quite look like a Gray Eminence. More like a young Protestant in Cardinal's clothing. But then he found the scrap of gray beard in the box that belonged with the costume and fitted it on. It made all the difference.
Talk about your disguises! Here his body was supposed to be a disguise, a disguise which was the uniform of the Aliens' Special Agents Division, of their terrestrial spy service. And now he was disguising that supposed disguise with a real oneЧjust as by being a supposed spy he was laying a trap for all the real secret operatives.
Alfred SmithЧone lone man against the aliens! "So that," he whispered reverently, "government of humans, by humans, and for humans shall not perish from the Earth."
The telephone. This time it was Jones.
"Just got word from Robinson, Smith. That special mission of mine. It looks like tonight's the night."
"Tonight, eh?" Alfred Smith felt the lace tighten around his throat.
"Yes, they're going to try to contact tonight. We still don't know just whereЧjust that it's in New York City, I'm to be on reserve: I'll rush around to whoever finds the contact. You know, reinforce, lend a helping hand, be a staunch ally, give an assist to, help out in a pinch, stand back to back with, buddy mine, pards till hell freezes over. You'll be at the plumbers' ball, won't you? Where is it?"
Alfred shook his head violently to clear it of the fog of clichщs thrown out by Jones. "Menshevik Hall. Tenth Avenue. What do I do if IЧif I discover the contact?"
"You phmpff, guy, phmpff like mad. And I'll come a-running. Forget about teleнphones if you discover the contact. Also forget about special-delivery mail, passenger pigeon, pony-express rider, wireless telegraphy, and couriers from His Majesty. Discovering the contact comes under the heading of 'emergency' under Operating Procedure Regulations XXXIII-XLIX inclusive. So phmpff your foolish head off."
"Right! Only thing, JonesЧ" there was a click at the other end as Jones hung up.
Tonight, Alfred Smith thought grimly, staring into the mirror. Tonight's the night!
For what?

Menshevik Hall was a gray two-story building in the draftiest section of Tenth Avenue. The lower floor was a saloon through whose greasy windows a neon sign proclaimed:

THE FEBRUARY REVOLUTION WAS
THE ONLY REAL REVOLUTION BAR & GRILL
BEER----WINES----CHOICE LIQUORS
Alexei Ivanovich Anphinov, Prop.