"Mack Reynolds - Romp" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reynolds Mack)

 Rosy snorted. "You're about as clean as a mud pack. You put in minimum time on that job of yours
and live like some of these Uppers holding down premium positions on double hours. The first time the
DS gets around to checking you, you're going to be doing some fast talking."
Pop Rasch said, "And all we have to do is start squabbling among ourselves and we'll all wind up in a
Category Medicine Psychotherapy flat-house learning to adjust to society." He grimaced at the thought.
Rosy said, "Listen, let's get going. We've been casing this job for weeks. There's no point in
panicking out now. Nothing's happened except a DS snooper named Rhuling talked to me for ten
minutes."
"Rhuling!" Rasch said.
Rosy looked at him. "Somebody you know?"
"He's from Neuve Albuquerque. A real burn off stute. One of those yokes who takes his work
seriously. I got a friend that ran into this Willard Rhuling."
Mary Zogbaum blinked. "What happened to him?"
"What'd ya think happened to him? He's got a silly job now stooging for some Category Research
technician, or something. Why, when I see him on the street, he's hard put to remember me.
Brainwashed."
Rosy Porras got to his feet and growled, "Let's get going. It's late as it is."
Mary Zogbaum brought up the rear, disgruntled, but he followed.
They took Pop Rasch's heavy sedan to the records section of the Administration Building, which they
had already cased thoroughly. They parked half a block down from the side entry. Pop and Mary Zog
baum sat in the front seat, Rosy in the back.
Rosy opened the overnight bag which Rasch and Zogbaum had brought along and unfolded a long,
pipelike device. He screwed an object resembling a wind instrument's mouthpiece to the end.
He said, "You're sure of these details, eh?"
"Yes, yes," Zogbaum said nervously. "He's the only one in the building at night. He sets up various
routine matters for the day shift. But for all I know, he's already gone in. I think we're late. Perhaps we'd
better put it off."
"Don't be a funker," Rosy grunted.
"Here comes somebody now," Pop Rasch growled softly.
"It's him," Zogbaum whispered. "Are you sure . . ."
"Knock it," Rosy said.
The lone pedestrian passed without looking at them. When he had gone a dozen feet or so, Rosy
Porras rested his pipe on the ledge of the window and puffed a heavy breath of air into the mouthpiece.
The pedestrian clapped a hand to his neck as though swatting a mosquito, and went on.
Rosy grinned. He began taking his device apart again. "There's the world for you," he told his
companions. "The simpler things you use, the bigger the wrench you can throw into the most complicated
machinery these double domes can dream up. A blowgun!"
Pop Rasch said, "This was your idea, Rosy. How soon will it hit him?"
"In about fifteen minutes. Then he'll go out like a light and wake up in maybe six hours with a
blockbuster headache, but no memory of anything but sleeping."
"That'll give us plenty of time to finish the, uh"—Zogbaum looked at Rosy defiantly—"romp and leave
the place all cleaned up so nobody'll ever know we've been there. Six hours is plenty of time."
Pop Rasch looked at him. "Why don't you take a trank," he said. "Nothing to be nervous about. All
we gotta do is sit here for twenty minutes."
"I can't afford to be tranked," Zogbaum said, "and I hate to wait."

At the end of the twenty minutes they left the car and walked unhurriedly to the door of the building
which the lone pedestrian had entered. The street was deserted at this time of night. Pop Rasch carried
the valise.
Pop looked up and down the street as a double check, then hunkered down. The lock on the door