"Ron Goulart - The Panchronicon Plot" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goulart Ron)

"So it is rumored."
"Then not only will you be in line to get knocked off, Jake, but you'll stand a good chance of
being left behind in the middle of the past someplace."
"Oh, Vienna back in 1897 wouldn't be so bad."
THE PANCHRONICON PLOT 7


Angelica placed both hands on her hips. "I don't want to stand in the way of your rushing off to
do your best for Geer and country," she said. "However, I'm thinking if you do get stuck back in
old Vienna or end up like my Uncle Emmanuel, why then—"
"What happened to your Unc . . . no, never mind. I don't want to hear about him. Get to your
proposition."
"I think we ought to sleep together once more before you go."
"That's a very good idea," Conger decided.
8 RON GOULART



Chapter 3
He was still visible when he arrived in the New Mexico Free Colony. The doomed teleport
platform sat out on a dry flatpatch of brown and yellow desert. It was circled by many-elbowed
cactus plants, fat and spikey in the hot yellow afternoon.
Two greenish middle-aged Venusian lizard men had teleported in immediately ahead of Conger
and were waiting in the shade of one of the large candystripe umbrellas for someone to come and
do something about their luggage. Suitcases, steamer trunks, duffel bags made a considerable
mound under the umbrella with them.
"Travel light you said," the greener of the scaly lizard men was saying. "Pop off for a few days
from the embassy you said. Simply look at the pile of rummage you've burdened us with, Lars."
"Don't hector me, Klaus. You know how irritable I get when I'm changing my skin."
"You're irritable all the time, Lars. Promise me a leisurely desert vacation with nothing to do
but sit on a rock and bask in the sun and then you insist on dragging all this rubble with us."
"I certainly wasn't coming to a resort town without my party dresses, Klaus."
"Party dresses, okay. But why so many wigs?"
"I don't have manageable hair like yours. I really wish you wouldn't chide me over. . . ."
Conger, his single light suitcase swinging in his hand, walked away from the teleport oasis. A
moderately large complex of buildings loomed some five hundred yards ahead of him. A hand-
painted neocanvas sign tied to the central dome-building announced: Primitive Facilities Inn! All
Human Help! Recapture The Leisurely Life Patterns Of the 20th Century! Vacancy!
A man who might be an Indian was behind the registration desk. "Boy, I wouldn't want to be a
Martian catman on a day like this. It's bad enough having feathers."
"Are those your own feathers?" Conger dropped his bag in front of the angled realwood desk.
"No, no, they only make me wear this headpiece to add to the atmosphere. Hotter than Billy
Jesus." The clerk pushed a registration card toward him. "Sometimes I wish I were a lizard man,
heat doesn't seem to bother them. Except I get the feeling most of them are . . . you know, a little . .
. you know . . ." He wagged his left hand in the air.
"Customs on Venus are different than ours." Conger signed the card with the name Frank S.
Shawn.
"I guess so. There was a liz in here last week going around in a ballgown and a long blonde
wig. A guy. That must be one strange planet." He checked the cubbyholes behind him. "I can put
you in 201 or 206."