"Harry Harrison - Rebel in Time" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

provided. He rode the Metro, looking down at the thick, sealed envelope he was carrying. His own
records, the history of his nine years in the Army. Decorations, promotions, goof-ups, Fitzsimmons
Hospital records when they dug the shrapnel out of his back. Two years in Vietnam without a
scratch—then a short round from his own supporting battery. A Purple Heart from a chunk of Detroit
steel. Then a transfer to the MPs, then G2, military intelligence. The records were all here. It would be
interesting to look at them. And military suicide if he were to open the envelope.

And what organization was he going to on Massachusetts Avenue? He knew most of the spook outfits,
starting with the CIA out in Langley right on down. But he had never even heard of this one. Report to
Mr Kelly. And who the hell was Kelly? Enough. He'd find out soon enough. He looked up to check the
station, McPherson Square, then looked back down just in time to catch the eye of the girl sitting across
from him. She looked away quickly. A very foxy girl, what they used to call a high-yellow when he was a
boy. She glanced back again and he gave her his toothpaste commercial smile; lips pulled back so his
white teeth showed in nice contrast to his dark-brown skin. This time she raised her nose slightly and
sniffed as she turned away.

Rebuffed! He had to smile. Didn't she see what she was missing? Five feet ten of handsome, cleancut
soldier.

The train slowed as it entered Metro Center. Troy was the first one off and he stayed ahead of the pack
as they rushed for the escalator to the Red Line. He rode up into the indirectly lit cavern, more like a
futuristic spaceship hangar than a subway. It made the old Independent in New York look like the filthy
hole that it really was.

There was a cool, autumn bite to the air as he walked down Massachusetts checking the numbers. There
it was, a tall, brownstone house, just across New Jersey. No name, no identifying plate, nothing. He
climbed the steps and pressed the polished brass button, well aware of the fisheye of the micro TV
camera above it. The door buzzed and he went through into an airlock arrangement, with another door
ahead of him that did not open until the outer one had closed. Very neat. And another TV pick-up here
as well. Inside was a marble-floored lobby with a desk at the far end. His heels clacked as he walked the
length of it. The receptionist, a very cool redhead in a very tight sweater looked up at him and smiled.

'May I help you?'

'Sergeant Harmon. Mr Kelly is expecting me.'

'Thank you, Sergeant Harmon. If you will take a seat I'll let him know that you are here.'

The couch was too deep and soft to be comfortable, so he sat on its edge. There was a copy of Fortune
and a copy of Jet on the low table in front of him. What was this—catering to his special needs? He tried
to smile as he picked up Jet. Maybe they were trying to tell him something. If so he had got the message
a long time ago. Pics of a big party at the Hotel Theresa, then babies with rat bites in the slums just a few
blocks away. It was a different world to him. He had grown up in Queens, in South Jamaica, a nice,
secure middle-class area of frame houses and green trees. He knew as much about Harlem as he did
about the back of the Moon.

'Mr Kelly will see you now.'

He dropped the magazine, took up his envelope, and appreciatively followed the receptionist's sweetly
rotating bottom into an adjoining office.