"Джон Варли. Платежное поручение(engl) " - читать интересную книгу автора

He went off through the trees, walking swiftly.
The trees led to the very edge of the road. He stayed with them, not
coming out into the open. The Plant guards were certainly scanning the
hillside. They had burned it clean, so that anyone trying to creep up to the
fence would be spotted at once. And he had seen infrared searchlights.
Jennings crouched low, resting against his heels, watching the road. A
few yards up the road was a roadblock, just ahead of the gate. He examined
his watch. Ten thirty. He might have a wait, a long wait. He tried to relax.
It was after eleven when the great truck came down the road, rumbling
and wheezing.
Jennings came to life. He took out the strip of green cloth and
fastened it around his arm. The truck came closer. He could see its load
now. The back was full of workmen, men in jeans and workshirts, bounced and
jolted as the truck moved along. Sure enough, each had an arm band like his
own, a swathe of green around his upper arm. So far so good.
The truck came slowly to a halt, stopping at the roadblock. The men got
down slowly onto the road, sending up a cloud of dust into the hot midday
sun. They slapped the dust from their jeans, some of them lighting
cigarettes. Two guards came leisurely from behind the roadblock. Jennings
tensed. In a moment it would be time. The guards moved among the men,
examining them, their arm bands, their faces, looking at the identification
tabs of a few.
The roadblock slid back. The gate opened. The guards returned to their
positions.
Jennings slid forward, slithering through the brush, toward the road.
The men were stamping out their cigarettes, climbing back up into the truck.
The truck was gunning its motor, the driver releasing the brakes. Jennings
dropped onto the road, behind the truck. A rattle of leaves and dirt
showered after him. Where he had landed, the view of the guards was cut off
by the truck. Jennings held his breath. He ran toward the back of the truck.
The men stared at him curiously as he pulled himself up among them, his
chest rising and falling. Their faces were weathered, gray and lined. Men of
the soil. Jennings took his place between two burly farmers as the truck
started up. They did not seem to notice him. He had rubbed dirt into his
skin, and let his beard grow for a day. A quick glance he didn't look much
different from the others. But if anyone made a count --
The truck passed through the gate, into the grounds. The gate slid shut
behind. Now they were going up, up the steep side of the hill, the truck
rattling and swaying from side to side. The vast concrete structure loomed
nearer. Were they going to enter it? Jennings watched, fascinated. A thin
high door was sliding back, revealing a dark interior. A row of artificial
lights gleamed.
The truck stopped. The workmen began to get down again. Some mechanics
came around them.
"What's this crew for?" one of them asked.
"Digging. Inside." Another jerked a thumb. "They're digging again. Send
them inside."
Jennings's heart thudded. He was going inside! He felt at his neck.
There, inside the gray sweater, a flatplate camera hung like a bib around
his neck. He could scarcely feel it, even knowing it was there. Maybe this