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

main problem, dear lady, is this shoddy limb you chose to hook to yourself."
"What's 'at? I'll have yer know 'at's the finest fake leg money can buy." Mrs. Gurney scowled
over het fat shoulder. "Once me and Bertie struck it rich in the frozen fish 'n' chips line, Bertie he
says ter me, 'Bess, now you can buy yourself the best damn pseudoleg on the face of the bloody
earth.' Which is exactly what I did."
"You've been hoodwinked, Mrs. Gumey. This limb is of Taiwan manufacture and can be
purchased at any cyborg surplus depot for under $300."
"Ain't so. Why with that leg I been able to jig and tapdance. You can't do 'at with no cheapjack
limb. Ow! Ouch! Oof!"
The doctor returned to his treatment.
Conger was standing just inside the open balcony window. Neither the chubby doctor nor his
prone patient could see him. He was invisible.
He watched Madrid work on the newly-rich woman for another moment or two before drifting,
silently, across the living room and into the bedroom.
He'd already, using his considerable lockpicking skills, visited the rooms the Hellroarers were
occupying. The two were out and Conger could find nothing to link them with any governmental
agency or presidential conspiracy.
The chiropractor apparently slept on a grass mat. There was no bed in the room. Conger noticed
a rectangular outline near the center of the mat. When he slid the mat aside he found a flat
scramblephone hidden beneath it. He reached out to—
Bong!
Conger jerked back, replaced the mat. The secret phone was starting to give off the very faint
bonging which meant there was a call coming in for Dr. Madrid.
"Doc, you better go easy with 'at there thumping. I'm commencing to hear a ringing in me
blooming ears."
"Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Gurney. There's a lot of that going around, should clear up in a
few days."
Bong! Bong!
"I never 'ad anything like this here before. 'If there's one thing Bessie's got,' me Bert is always
saying, 'it's a bloody fine pair of ears.' "
"Yes, I'd concur in that. Now if you'll try to relax completely, dear lady, I'll scamper into the
next room for a piece of equipment. I'll return in no time."
Bong! Bong! Bong!
"I ain't budging out of here till that blessed ringing quits."
After shutting himself in the bedroom, Dr. Madrid squatted down, rolled up the mat and pushed
the answer button on the scramblephone.
THE PANCHRONICON PLOT 11


Invisible, Conger watched over the doctor's shoulder. A head covered with a synpaper sack
appeared on the phone screen.
"You look foolish with that thing over your head," said Dr. Madrid.
"Don't tell me, tell him. It's a security measure, another new one."
"I've got to get back to a wealthy patient. So what is it?"
"He wants a report."
"When I have news, I report it."
"Don't tell me, tell . . . ah . . . ah . . . ahchoo! Kerchoo! Darn, I think I'm coming down with
something."
"Nonsense," Dr. Madrid told him, "it's a simple synpape allergy. Take off that sack, massage
your temples for about ten minutes, then take—"