"Kuttner, Henry - Piggy Bank UC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kuttner Henry)

“And he’s strong,” Gunther said. “Don’t forget that. It’s important. He can rip metal, if he can get leverage. He’s not a superdooper, of course— if he were, he couldn’t be mobile. He’s subject to normal physical laws. But he is beautifully adaptive; he’s very strong; he has super-swift reactive powers; he’s not too vulnerable. And we’re the only guys who can immobilize Argus.”
“That helps,” Ballard said.
Gunther shrugged. “Might as well start. The robot’s ready.” He jerked a wire free from the golden helm. “It takes a minute or so for the automatic controls to take over. Now—”

The immense figure stirred. On light, rubberoid soles, it moved away, so quickly that its legs almost blurred. Then it stood motionless once more.
“We were too close,” Gunther said, licking his lips. “He reacts to the vibrations sent out by our brains. There’s your piggy bank, Bruce!”
A little smile twisted Ballard’s lips. “Yeah. Let’s see—” He walked toward the robot. Argus slid away quietly.
“Try the combination,” Gunther suggested.
Ballard said softly, almost whispering, “All is not gold that glitters.” He approached the robot again, but it reacted by racing noiselessly into a distant corner. Before Ballard could say anything, Gunther murmured, “Say it louder.”
“Suppose someone overhears? That’s—”
“So what? You’ll change the key phrase, and when you do, you can get close enough to Argus to whisper it.”
“All is not gold that glitters.” Ballard’s voice rose. This time, when he went to the robot, the giant figure did not stir.
Ballard pressed a concealed stud in the golden helm and murmured, “These are pearls that were his eyes.” He touched the button again, and the robot fled into another corner. “Uh-huh. It works, all right.”
“Don’t give him such obvious combinations,” Gunther suggested. “Suppose one of your guests starts quoting Shakespeare? Mix up your quotations.”
Ballard tried again. “What light through yonder window breaks I come here to bury Caesar now is the time for all good men.”
“Nobody’s going to say that by accident,” Gunther remarked. “Fair enough. Now I’m going out and enjoy myself. I need relaxation. Write me a check.”
“How much?”
“Couple of thousand. I’ll tele-call you if I need more.”
“What about testing the robot?”
“Go ahead and test him. You won’t find anything wrong.”
“Well, take your guards.”
Gunther grinned sardonically and headed for the door.

An hour later the air taxi grounded atop a New York skyscraper. Gunther emerged, flanked by two husky protectors. Ballard was running no risks of having his colleague abducted by a rival. As Gunther paid the air cabman, the detectives glanced at their wrist spotters and punched the red button set into each case. They reported thus, every five minutes, that all was well. One of Ballard’s control centers in New York received the signals and learned that all was well—that there was no need to send out a rush rescue squad. It was complicated, but effective. No one else could use the spotters, for a new code was used each day. This time the key ran: first hour, report every five minutes; second hour, every eight minutes; third hour, every six minutes. And, at the first hint of danger, the detectives could instantly send in an alarm.
But this time it didn’t work out successfully. When the three men got into the elevator, Gunther said, “The Fountain Room,” and licked his lips in anticipation. The door swung shut, and as the elevator started its breakneck race down, anaesthetic gas flooded the little cubicle. One of the detectives managed to press the alarm warning on his spotter, but he was unconscious before the car slowed at the basement. Gunther didn’t even realize he was being gassed before he lost consciousness.
He woke up fettered securely to a metal chair. The room was windowless, and a spotlight was focused on Gunther’s face. He manipulated sticky eyelids, wondering how long he had been out. Scowling, he twisted his arm so that his wrist watch was visible.
Two men loomed, shadowy beyond the lamp. One wore a physician’s white garment. The other was a little man, ginger-haired, with a hard rat trap of a face.
“Hi, Ffoulkes,” Gunther said. “You saved me a hangover.”
The little man chuckled. “Well, we’ve done it at last. Lord knows I’ve been trying long enough to get you away from Ballard’s watchdogs.”
“What day is this?”
“Wednesday. You’ve been unconscious for about twenty hours.”
Gunther frowned. “Well, start talking.”
“I’ll do that, first, if you like. Are Ballard’s diamonds artificial?”
“Don’t you wish you knew?”
“I’ll offer you about anything you want if you’ll cross up Ballard.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Gunther said candidly. “You wouldn’t have to keep your word. It’d be more logical for you to kill me, after I’d talked.”
“Then we’ll have to use scopolamin.”
“It won’t work. I’ve been immunized.”
“Try it, anyway. Lester!”
The white-gowned man came forward and put a hypodermic deftly into Gunther’s arm. After a while he shrugged.
“Complete immunization. Scop is no good, Mr. Ffoulkes.”
Gunther smiled. “Well?”
“Suppose I try torture?”
“I don’t think you’d dare. Torture and murder are capital crimes.”
The little man moved nervously around the room. “Does Ballard himself know how to make the diamonds? Or are you the only one?”
“The Blue Fairy makes ‘em,” Gunther said. “She’s got a magic wand.”
“I see. Well, I won’t try torture yet. I’ll use duress. You’ll have plenty to eat and drink. But you’ll stay here till you talk. It’ll get rather dull after a month or so.”
Gunther didn’t answer, and the two men went out. An hour passed, and another.