"Robert A. Heinlein - The unpleasant profession of Johathan Ho" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

business that a detective can do?"
Hoag looked unhappy, then blurted out, "I want you to find out what I do in the
daytime."
Randall looked him over, then said slowly, "You want me to find out what you do
in the daytime?"
"Yes. Yes, that's it."
"Mm-m-m. Wouldn't it be easier for you to tell me what you do?"
 "Oh, I couldn't tell you!"
"Why not?"
"I don't know."
Randall was becoming somewhat annoyed. "Mr. Hoag," he said, "I usually charge
double for playing guessing games. If you won't tell me what you do in the daytime, it
seems to me to indicate a lack of confidence in me which will make it very difficult
indeed to assist you. Now come clean with me -- what is it you do in the daytime and
what has it to do with the case? What is the case?"
Mr. Hoag stood up. "I might have known I couldn't explain it," he said unhappily,
more to himself than to Randall. "I'm sorry I disturbed you. I -- "
"Just a minute, Mr. Hoag." Cynthia Craig Randall spoke for the first time. "I think
perhaps you two have misunderstood each other. You mean, do you not, that you really
and literally do not know what you do in the daytime?"
"Yes," he said gratefully. "Yes, that is exactly it."
"And you want us to find out what you do? Shadow you, find out where you go,
and tell you what you have been doing?"
Hoag nodded emphatically. "That is what I have been trying to say."
Randall glanced from Hoag to his wife and back to Hoag. "Let's get this straight,"
he said slowly. "You really don't know what you do in the daytime and you want me to
find out. How long has this been going on?"
"I...I don't know."
"Well -- what do you know?"

Hoag managed to tell his story, with prompting. His recollection of any sort ran
back about five years, to the St. George Rest Home in Dubuque. Incurable amnesia -- it
no longer worried him and he had regarded himself as completely rehabilitated. They --
the hospital authorities -- had found a job for him when he was discharged.
"What sort of a job?"
He did not know that. Presumably it was the same job he now held, his present
occupation. He had been strongly advised, when he left the rest home, never to worry
about his work, never to take his work home with him, even in his thoughts. "You see,"
Hoag explained, "they work on the theory that amnesia is brought on by overwork and
worry. I remember Dr. Rennault telling me emphatically that I must never talk shop,
never let my mind dwell on the day's work. When I got home at night I was to forget such
things and occupy myself with pleasant subjects. So I tried to do that."
"Hm-m-m. You certainly seem to have been successful, almost too successful for
belief. See here -- did they use hypnosis on you in treating you?"
"Why, I really don't know."
"Must have. How about it, Cyn? Does it fit?"
His wife nodded, "It fits. Posthypnosis. After five years of it he couldn't possibly
think about his work after hours no matter how he tried. Seems like a very odd therapy,
however."
Randall was satisfied. She handled matters psychological. Whether she got her