"Ron Goulart - The Prisoner of Blackwood Castle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goulart Ron)

 "Yow!" exclaimed Harry, finding the groin area of the automaton
untraditionally hard and unyielding.
Nevertheless, his kick succeeded in knocking the machine man off
balance.
Hopping on his pained foot, Harry swung his saber in chopping fashion
at the off-balance automaton.
The cutting edge of his saber bit into the face, sending chunks of
pink-tinted wax flying. The skull beneath was of polished metal.
Pivoting as the mechanical man attempted to strike him with his blade,
Harry executed another kick.
This one caught his opponent in the backside.
The automaton stretched out in the air like an enormous jumping jack.
Then he fell over onto the black and white floor.
Harry followed him down, crouching over him and hacking at the wax
and metal head with his saber.
The fallen machine man made tinny choking noises, arms and legs
starting to jerk convulsively. Then his scalp, dark imitation hair and all,
popped clear off his head. The silvery metal top of his skull quivered,
swung open and vomited out gears, wires and intricate twists of metal. A
small rainbow-tinted pool of oil was spreading swiftly across the mosaic
tiles.
Sucking in air, Harry stood back and away from the dead machine.
Glancing around carefully, he made his way to the doorway of the
Pavilion of Automatons.
Crouched in the shadows near the doors was the writing boy in the little
velvet suit. "We won't forget," he chirped in his small voice. "We won't
forget."
"Neither will I," promised Harry.
He was outside in the heavy rain, walking through the Chinese Street,
when the stares and murmurs of the damp tourists caused him to realize
he was still carrying the borrowed saber.
Harry threw it away in the first flower bed he came to.


CHAPTER 3
 Harry was attempting to concentrate on the front page of the morning
paper. There was political unrest in Ruritania, a severe earthquake had
struck the farmlands of Graustark, there'd been an assassination attempt
in Valeria. He set the newspaper aside and picked up his coffee cup.
Two tables over, a wealthy middle-aged American tourist couple were
discussing their itinerary for the day. The woman, plump and muffled in
fur and feathers, held a red-covered Baedeker as though it were a
hymnbook. There were few other patrons as yet, since the hour was early.
The six bright yellow canaries, each in its own gilded cage dangling from
one of the gold hooks around the dark-paneled restaurant walls, were
singing happily. They were apparently not bothered by the fact that little
of the morning sunshine penetrated the heavy shutters of the leaded
windows. Illumination in the Hotel Ritz-Zauber's restaurant was provided
by a huge crystal chandelier and crystal wall lamps recently converted
from gas to electricity. The maroon carpeting was so thick it killed all