"01 - Armageddon, the Musical (b)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

'You can rely on me.' Rex straightened his shoulders. 'Just lead me to my office.'

'Office?' The ghastly noise which came from the woman's throat bore a vague resemblance to laughter. A very vague resemblance. 'Do you have your own transport?'

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Rex shook his head.

Then we will issue you with some. You will report in from the in-car terminal hourly. Hourly, do you under­stand?'

'What if I have nothing to report?'

'You will nevertheless report in. Company vehicles are very expensive. Should an operative fail to report in, it will be assumed that he has absconded with the vehicle. The mother computer will therefore immobilize the vehicle and reverse the environmental controls. Simply a precaution which in your case, I trust, will never be applied.'

'Indeed not.'

'Do you have any questions?'

'We haven't discussed salary, hours or expenses, as yet. Perhaps these matters should be thrashed out now, to save you any inconvenience at a later date.'

Ms Vrillium held up a small transparent cube. 'This will furnish you with all the information you should require regarding your first assignment.' She tossed the thing to Rex. 'You will be paid on results, legitimate expenses will be covered.'

Rex turned the cube upon his palm, he was not altogether convinced. 'Is my sister Gloria about?'

'Gloria is far too busy to speak to you now. But if it's anything important I might mention it to her tonight. We live together, you know.'

'How charming,' said Rex. 'Do you think I might use your lavatory?'

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Everything for the state, nothing outside the state. Mussolini

Careful with that axe, Eugene. P. Floyd

Half an hour later, Rex Mundi sat at the controls of company vehicle 801. It was a spartan little craft, two speed, closed environment, single seater, automatic guidance. Powered by a nuclear reactor the size of a matchbox. 'A child could fly it,' he had been unreliably informed. The dashboard housed a computer console, but to Rex's chagrin, lacked a TV terminal.

Rex delved into the breast pocket of his radiation suit and drew out the small transparent cube. He slotted it into its housing and the narrow console screen sprang into life. It formed the station logo, three tiny tadpoles chasing each other's tails, then crackled uncertainly with the outspeak of its selective memory. 'Rex Mundi, religious affairs correspondent seven, please identify.' Rex pressed close to the screen. 'Identification confirmed. Work schedule one. Proceed to section four, north quarter. Investigate recent unconfirmed reports of cannibal cult Devianti.'

'Cannibal?' Rex punched the co-ordinates into the

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directional guidance system and the knackered craft lurched aloft.

'Hourly reportage to be strictly observed,’ the voice from the console continued. 'Credits allotted for this assignment as follows: informer twenty-seven, acolyte thirty-five, high priest one hundred. Have another day.'

'High priest, one hundred credits.' Rex's eyebrows rose to meet his spirits. 'Further rehousing, with access to the state nympharium thrown in.' A big bonus indeed.

The car swung up and Rex peered down at the blasted landscape. He could make out the Nemesis Bunker, which wasn't difficult as it covered about thirty acres, the subway terminal, the ranks of hardly-built rehousing, the rubble-strewn roads. A grim enough vista. He hit the clouds at about 500 feet and travelled a while in darkness. Rex considered circling Odeon Towers, just to see what it looked like from above, but the thought of one hundred credits kept his mind firmly on the job. He had definitely fallen on his feet here. A job with prospects, firm's car, expense account. This was the big time. Good old Gloria, and he had thought she didn't like him much. It was, of course, all far too good to be true.