"Ron Goulart - Shaggy Planet" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goulart Ron)

involved with me."
"Don't think we care about your private life," the computer assured
him. "The Mirabilis Agency feels that the unconventional nature of
your life is a plus factor."
"What's unconventional about sleeping with a girl? You people put
me dancing with robots."
The computer said from its crosshatch speaker grid, "You do like
machines, don't you? I know you've often implied you thought I was
a nice guy and a good sport."
"You're the perfect field boss," replied Torres. "What's the job
Mirabilis wants to hire me for?"
"I've been told I'm very personable," said the computer. "Well, let's
get on to this job we have for you. This is highly . . . Look, Peter,
you don't talk shop with Peggy? Tell her trade secrets, anecdotes
about your work with our private mercenary agent service?"
"Nope."
"Because this is something we wouldn't want the press media to get
wind of. They've already made a small frumus. You know how they
distort things."


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"What thing is it you don't want them to distort?"
A bank of tiny green bubble lights flared on across the computer's
surface. "About a month ago a Barnum official came out here to
Murdstone on a fact-finding mission. As you know, our home
planet of Barnum supervises, very quietly, the running of the
various governments on Murdstone.
There've been rumors about increased repressions and worsening
conditions throughout this territory."
"The Junta has started public executions," said Torres. "There's
famine in the outlands."
"Those are some of the rumors this official was to look into,"
replied the Mirabilis Agency computer. "The Barnum Embassy here
is not always the best source of information, so an independent
official was sent out to gather facts and file reports. He, however,
never got to file a single report."
"Why?"
"Look up at my left monitor screen."
A forty-one-year-old blonde woman, handsome and distraught,
appeared on the small playing-card-size screen. She was twisting a
plaid scarf into intricate knots, touching at her eyes with the knots,
"That's Mrs. Beatty Dunnlin, isn't it?" said Torres. "Socialite wife or
Beatty Dunnlin, the olive oil tycoon and political trouble shooter.
That's right, he disappeared just before I got out here. There was a
mention of his being still missing on the news the day after I
arrived."