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

'The Nemesis Bunker,’ Rex replied, proudly.

Circuits purred, information exchanged, the electrical voice said, 'Thank you, Mr Mundi, you are cleared for travel. Have another day.'

The morning train lurched painfully into the station and shuddered to a halt. It was not unduly crowded and Rex chose a vacant corner of the seatless carriage to squat in. The journey took a little over an hour, but it did at least offer Rex the opportunity to catch the morning newscast on the carriage TV, learn what was considered right with the world and clock up a few legitimate food and medico credits.

The newscast was much the same as ever. Things were looking up. The economy had never been healthier. Production had reached a record level. There had been several more authenticated sightings of blue sky. The road cones were expected to come off the M25 at any time now. Rex raised his eyes to the last one, but anything was possible.

The broadcast ended with a little bit of station propa­ganda, dressed in the guise of human interest story and comical tailpiece. Today it concerned an old lady who had clocked up an unprecedented number of credits, watching a rival station. So many, in fact, that the station's controller saw fit to visit her in person to offer his congratulations. Eliciting no response at her bunker door, his associates had cut their way in. And there was the old dear propped up before the screen, staring on oblivious. She had been dead for three weeks.

'Predictable,' muttered Rex, who was sure that he had heard the tale before. Happily, his stop came just as the station songsters were launching into an excruciating

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new ditty 'Every Mushroom Cloud has a Silver Lining'. The train rattled into Nemesis Terminus, deftly sweeping aside any fallen objects. Today only two antisocial types chose to make the morning leap to oblivion. The driver considered this about average for the time of year and tuned the cab TV to his favourite foodie.

When the closing credits of her favourite show had finally rolled off the screen, the fashionable young woman behind the reception desk lowered the volume on her terminal. With mock surprise, she stared at the young man who had been standing there for the last twenty minutes, patiently flicking dandruff from the interior of his weatherdome.

'What do you want?' she asked, without charm.

'Rex Mundi.' The lad smiled encouragingly towards the stone-faced harpy.

'So what?' There was something in the woman's tone that suggested to Rex that casual sex was probably out of the question.

'I'm expected, or was anyway.'

'You're late.'

Rex opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. If the receptionist could carry on in this fashion, it was more than likely that she held considerable sway with some high muckamuck on the Nemesis board of directors, possibly even the Dalai Lama himself. No doubt in a horizontal capacity, Rex concluded, in­accurately.

'I have an appointment to see Ms Vrillium.'

The receptionist gave her terminal console a desultory tap or two.

'Ah yes, you're . . .'

'Late?' Rex said. 'Perhaps if you would be so kind as

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to direct me to the office of the lady in question, I might make up a few lost minutes.'

'You'd never find it,’ said the receptionist, sighing hopelessly. 'Others have tried. Men, what good are they, eh? One brain between the lot of them.' Rex examined his finger nails. They didn't bear examination.

'Possibly someone might be kind enough to show me the way then.'

The receptionist peered about the otherwise deserted entrance hall.

'It would seem,’ said she, at length, 'that all are engaged in their various business pursuits. Perhaps you'd better come back some other time.'