"Stephen Goldin - The Sword Unswayed" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goldin Stephen)

in an ongoing investigation."

"Not physically," Rabinowitz agreed.

Dinh took the last sip of her hot chocolate, then slowly stood up and put on her coat. Hoy escorted her
to the door and said, "That's my car over there. If you'll wait a moment, I just need a few words with Ms.
Rabinowitz." Dinh nodded and walked down the front steps.

"You know, if this was my case she'd have to be right near the top of the suspect list," Hoy said when
Dinh was out of earshot.

"Then I'm sure we're all glad it's not your case," Rabinowitz said.

"One thing more," he added. "On my way over here I flagged the system for your name. Seems you were
involved in an incident of an alien going loono earlier this evening."

"Why yes, I still remember that. It was only a few hours ago. But how kind of you to remind me."

"It might amuse you to know that the alien who rented that body also came from K'tolu'tan. Gives one
something to think about, doesn't it?" he said as he closed the door behind him.

***

Rabinowitz already had too much to think about. The first full run-through of any play was never less than
traumatic, and the Scottish play seemed particularly cursed. She had, over the years, assembled as fine a
crew as one could hope for in amateur theatricals, but all of these people had other things happening in
their lives and could only devote so much attention to the play. Crises were inevitable.

She sat in the audience of the virtual theater watching it all unfold. Kwame Massala, her Mac, was the
rock that anchored this production. He was superb, never a blown line or a misplaced cue. The only
reason he was still working with an amateur group was that no professional company was willing to pay
him more than he made as a stockbroker. Yet.
Her Lady M., Sally Rath, was a talented amateur but unlikely to make the jump to professional. She was
decent in her soliloquies -- but standing toe-to-toe with Mac, her deficiencies showed only too well.
Rabinowitz was staging this to minimize the inequalities but, to her eyes at least, they were still there.

The rest of the cast ranged from good to unobjectionable. None of them could save a bad show, but
none would cause a catastrophe, either. And behind everything was Rabinowitz's true star, Fran Bowd
the everywhere-at-once-and-never-in-the-way stage manager, sweeping up all the minor dilemmas
before they became full-blown crises. Rabinowitz never wondered what she would do without Fran, any
more than she wondered what she'd do without a kidney; she knew she'd cope, but it wasn't worth
contemplating.

But as she sat in the audience trying to make notes, another figure intruded: her Gloucester, the ultimate
clown in the ultimate black comedy. Twisted, perverted, sporting with the world that belittled him --
Kwame could play him well, and Sally would make a splendid Lady Anne since she wasn't expected to
stand up to him well.

"Was ever woman in this humour wooed?" Rabinowitz sighed. "Was ever woman in this humour won?
Oh Will, you had such a dismal opinion of us sometimes . . .but your men weren't that much better, come