"Robert A. Heinlein - Friday" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

someone was bound to notice. By taking his cards and passport I had hoped to postpone identifying
the body and thereby give myself more time to get clear but-wait a moment. Mmm, yes, passport and
Diners Club card were both for "Adolf Belsen." American Express extended credit to "Albert
Beaumont" and the Bank of Hong Kong took care of "Arthur Bookman" while MasterCard provided for
"Archibald Buchanan."
I "reconstructed" the crime: Beaumont-Bookman-Buchanan had just thumbed the latch of the
locker when Belsen sapped him from behind, shoved him into the locker, used his own Diners Club
card to lock it, and left hastily.
Yes, an excellent theory . . . and now to muddy the water still more.
Those IDs and credit cards went back of my own in my wallet; "Belsen's" passport I
concealed about my person. I could not stand a skin search but there are ways to avoid a skin
search including (but not limited to) bribery, influence, corruption, misdirection, and razzle-
dazzle.


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As I came out of the washroom, passengers from the next capsule were trickling in and
queuing up at Customs, Health, and Immigration; I joined a queue. The CHI officer remarked on how
very light my jumpbag was and asked about the state of the up-high black market. I gave him my
best stupid look, the one on my passport picture. About then he found the correct amount of
squeeze tucked into my passport and dropped the matter.
I asked him for the best hotel and the best restaurant. He said that he wasn't supposed to
make recommendations but that he thought well of the Nairobi Hilton. As for food, if I could
afford it, the Fat Man, across from the Hilton, had the best food in Africa. He hoped that I would
enjoy my stay in Kenya.
I thanked him. A few minutes later I was down the mountain and in the city, and regretting
it. Kenya Station is over five kilometers high; the air is always thin and cold. Nairobi is higher
than Denver, nearly as high as Ciudad de Mexico, but it is only a fraction of the height of Mount
Kenya and it is just a loud shout from the equator.
The air felt thick and too warm to breathe; almost at once my clothes were soggy with
sweat; I could feel my feet starting to swell- and besides they ached from full gee. I don't like
off-Earth assignments but getting back from one is worse.
I called on mind-control training to help me not notice my discomfort. Garbage. If my mind-
control master had spent less time squatting in lotus and more time in Kenya, his instruction
might have been more useful. I forgot it and concentrated on the problem: how to get out of this
sauna bath quickly.
The lobby of the Hilton was pleasantly cool. Best of all, it held a fully automated travel
bureau. I went in, found an empty booth, sat down in front of the terminal. At once the attendant
showed up. "May I help you?"
I told her I thought I could manage; the keyboard looked familiar. (It was an ordinary
Kensington 400.)
She persisted: "I'd be glad to punch it for you. I don't have anyone waiting." She looked
about sixteen, a sweet face, a pleasant voice, and a manner that convinced me that she really did
take pleasure in being helpful.
What I wanted least was someone helping me while I did things with credit cards that
weren't mine. So I slipped her a medium-size tip while telling her that I really did prefer to
punch it myself-but I would shout if I got into difficulties.
She protested that I did not have to tip her-but she did not insist on giving it back, and