"Eric Flint - The Philosophical Strangler" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flint Eric)

The Belisarius series, with David Drake:
An Oblique Approach
In the Heart of Darkness
Destiny's Shield
Fortune's Stroke
The Tide of Victory (forthcoming)

The Federation of the Hub series,
by James H. Schmitz, edited by Eric Flint:
Telzey Amberdon
T'nT: Telzey & Trigger
Trigger & Friends
The Hub: Dangerous Territory
 Prologue.
Entropy, and the Strangler


"To the contrary," demurred Greyboar, toying with his mug,
"the secret lies entirely in the fingerwork."
But the bravo wouldn't have it. " 'Tis rather in the main force!" he bellowed, and fell upon the
strangler. The table splintered, the mugs went flying in a cloud of ale froth.
Needless to say, I scrambled aside. Like being a chipmunk caught between two bull moose, don't
you know? Besides, there's no profit in this sort of thing.
Safe at a distance, I stuck my head between two cheering onlookers and saw that my client was in
his assailant's grasp. The lout's great biceps, triceps, deltoids, pectoids and whatnot bulged and rippled
as he worked at Greyboar's throat. Couldn't find it, of course.
They're a low lot, these tavern rowdies, not given to temperate debate.
Stupid, to boot. What I mean is, the outcome was never in doubt. "Professional fingerwork," as
Greyboar calls it, is simply beyond the ken of hurlyburlies who lounge about the alehouses, until they
encounter it firsthand.
For this particular clown, personal experience had now arrived. Casually, Greyboar sank his hands
into his opponent's belly, kneading and squeezing. It must be like eating ten cucumbers at once. An
astonished grimace came over the goon's face.
"Fouled our breeches, have we?" chuckled the chokester. A good lad, Greyboar, but his humor runs
in a low vein.
His jest made, the strangler proceeded to more serious business. A quick flip of the thumbs popped
the bullyboy's kneecaps. His victim now at eye level, Greyboar leaned back in his chair and shrugged
off the hands which were still groping in the vicinity of where his neck would be if he had one.
"As I said," he concluded, "it's all in the fingerwork."
Then, just as I thought we'd gotten out of the silly affair with no harm, wouldn't you know it but
that the barkeep had to go pour oil on the flames.
"And who's going to pay for all this broken furniture?" he demanded. The barkeep's voice was
shrill, in keeping with his sour face. He looked down at the bullyboy, now writhing on the floor.
"Not Lothar, that's for sure," he whined. "Not much money to be made by a loan enforcer on
crutches."
That's done it! I thought.
"Him?" exclaimed Greyboar. "A shark's tooth?" His good humor vanished like the dew.
"And here it is," I grumbled, "there'll be lawsuits, damages, weeping widow and wailing tots, and
the Old Geister knows what else." I squirmed my way through the crowd.