"Philip E. High - Butterfly Planet" - читать интересную книгу автора (High Phillip E)

“Where are we going?” On subsequent reflection, it seemed a futile sort of question but he realized he
had asked it to relieve his growing alarm.

“You'll find out."
“That I could figure out myself. What are you—police?"

“Spare us, please. Do we look like police?"

“Then clearly you have made some sort of mistake. I'm a nobody, I'm a second-class technician
named—"

“Maynard. We're familiar with your name and background. Incidentally, you appear to be a reasonably
sensible man, you obeyed our orders. Continue to do so, that was a congealer we had pressed into your
back."

Maynard said nothing, aware only of a remote faintness. A congealer caused blood-clotting with an
immediate and invariably fatal heart attack. Had his warders chosen to use the weapon, they would have
got clean away with it. Only a post-mortem would reveal the true cause of death which was of no
consolation whatever.

The car stopped and he was ushered out. The men guided him to a tall building and they were whisked
upwards in the gravity shaft to almost the highest floor.

“This way."

He found himself in a high, wide room dominated by a huge ornate desk.

“Sit down.” A fat, brown-faced man sat behind the desk, resting his chin on his hands as if brooding.

“You heard. Sitdown !” Someone pushed a chair against the back of his knees and he sat rather heavily.

The fat man said: “That's better, I prefer the minor courtesies, don't you?” He removed his chin from his
hands and showed small white teeth, briefly. “For identification purposes, you may refer to me as
Smith—Mr.Smith. You are Peter Maynard, aged thirty years, two months and ten days. You are a
second-class technician employed by Allied Electronics."

He paused and looked at the other directly. “A third-class technician holding on to a second-class ticket
with his finger nails. You don't rate second-class, not really, you wear it because of a naïve honesty. So
far, you have ‘lost’ nothing, disposed of nothing or acquired anything for your personal use. Honest techs
are rare and your employers appreciate it."

He smiled again, the eyes remaining cold and calculating. “You are a nobody, Maynard, and I expect you
are wondering why we bothered to pick you up. The answer is brief, you are a deviant. Before you get
big ideas about that, permit me to cut you down to size. The word ‘deviant’ is an official label denoting
minor psychological variations. Actors, artists, musicians and various other creatives are thus bracketted.
Occasionally, however, someone crops up who is a little different. They may possess some minor asset
which could prove profitable and we like to get hold of them first."

Maynard said: “Presumably you have gained access to the psychological tapes in the Institute of
Psychiatry. The information contained on those tapes is supposed to be private."