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

'Good, then I will tell you all you wish to know. There are some old warehouses about a mile north of here.'

'How will I know them?'

'You'll not miss them. They are surrounded by barri­cades. But don't let this deter you, just walk straight up and knock.'

'Assuming that I have somehow avoided the attentions of the snipers who no doubt guard the place, who should I ask for?'

'Assuming that this miracle has occurred, then Rambo Bloodaxe is your man.'

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'Rambo Bloodaxe?' Rex crumpled in hilarity. 'Don't wind me up.'

'I'm serious, mister. They've all got names like that. Brad the Impaler, Deathblade Eric.'

Rex shook his head. 'Might I suggest, that in your certainty for my forthcoming extinction, you are pre­suming to take liberties with my not inconsiderable intellect? I feel the red mist coming on.' Rex clutched at his head and made a ferocious face.

'Hold on, hold on mister. I'm telling you the truth. I wouldn't lie to a dying man.' Rex peered through his fingers. 'Anyway,' the wretch continued, 'if you return to prove me wrong then . . .'

'Then it wouldn't go well for you.' Rex looked at his watch. Whether or not Rogan Josh was telling the truth, or even a small part of it, seemed a matter for grave doubts. But it was something at least, and this was his first day on the job. If he screwed up, he would learn by his mistakes. Rex pulled a three credit piece from his purse and tossed it towards the wretch.

Josh stared at it in horror. 'But you said . . .'

'I lied.' Rex took up his weatherdome and walked.

He returned to his car and punched the name of Rogan Josh into the console. If he never got any further than dealing with informers, he should still be able to turn a handsome profit. But what about Rambo Bloodaxe and his anthropophagous acolytes? That was another matter. But then, what did it matter? If the whole thing was simply down to the Dalai remembering a few lost souls in the meditations, surely he could punch in any old name.

Rex pondered long and hard on this one. He wasn't slow to conclude that the same thought must no doubt

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have crossed the mind of his predecessor. Rex hadn't bothered to ask what became of him, assuming that he had found promotion. Now he wasn't too sure. Perhaps no-one ever got out of this job alive.

Rex shook his head, he was just being morbid. Probably the drink. But he would do well to be shrewd until he knew, for certain, exactly how the land lay.

A flicker of movement caught Rex's attention. Someone had left the tavern and was coming across the car park. Rex sank low in his seat and peeped into the wing mirror. It was Rogan Josh.

The wretch, who suddenly didn't appear so wretched, strolled across to the Rigel Charger, disarmed the anti­personnel device and climbed aboard. There was a roar of engines, a cloud of dust and a great whoosh as the car sped skywards.

Well now, thought Rex, smacking the battered 801 into drive, the plot thickens. 'Confirm identity and report destination,' said the console.

'Rex Mundi.' Rex glanced at the screen. 'In pursuit of Devianti informer.'

'Identification confirmed. Have another day.'

The Rigel Charger sloped off through a bank of low cloud and Rex followed, the 801's guidance system locked into the heat pattern of its exhaust. Rex sat back in his seat. It was dead exciting, all this, just like the sci-fi videos he had grown up on. 'Zoom zoom,' said Rex Mundi. 'And away we go.'

Exactly why the 801's computer failed to recognize the high-voltage power cables ahead as a possible hazard to low-flying aircraft, and take the appropriate evasive action, was a matter for the company crash crew and the accident investigators to file reports on later.