Читать книгу The Science Fiction Anthology онлайн

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But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime with all his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Black market prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could be done.

Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks got lost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man with a black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouse off lower Broadway.

“Ah, yes,” the little man said. “Mr. Faircloth. We’ve been expecting you.”

I didn’t like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of the place. “I’ve been told you can supply me with a—”

He coughed. “Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible.” He fingered his mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. “Busy executives often come to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements. Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see the merchandise ourselves—” He wiped his hands on his trousers. “Now were you interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth?”