"L'Amour, Louis - Last_of_the_Breed04" - читать интересную книгу автора (L'Amour Louis)

Shepilov was in a sense his superior, but in another department. And Shepilov did not like him. He resented Zamatev's friendships in Moscow, his influence in the higher reaches of command.
"If you need help--?"
"Thank you, but we will manage nicely." He hung up the phone and sat back in his chair. He swore then, softly, bitterly. To have this happen now! Now, when all was going so well!
Who would dream that a man could go over the wire?
Tomorrow they would have him, tomorrow without fail.
For a moment he sat thinking, and then he lifted the phone again. He made three calls, mobilizing still stronger searching parties.
The bastard! Where had he gotten to? Why was he not already caught?
Tomorrow night there was a meeting he must attend, and surely he would be questioned, if only casually. His activities were little known, and talk about them was not welcomed, but there was a lively curiosity, and some, such as Shepilov, knew a little. Such a search as he had now instituted was sure to excite comment.
Irritably, Zamatev walked to the window, staring out at the low mountains. Despite his ambitions, which if realized would take him to Moscow, Zamatev loved Siberia, although sometimes it worried him that the manners were more casual here, that there was, or seemed to be, less respect. To get the technical people to come out here and stay they had to be accorded privileges as well as much higher pay, and this had brought innovators and thinkers, men and women whose ideas did not always agree with those expressed in Moscow. As yet there had been no trouble, nor did Zamatev believe such people would go too far, yet a bridle must be put upon some of the free thinking.
His thoughts returned to the American. Where could he go? What would he do? He must have food. He would need warmer clothing.
He would steal. But from whom? Some isolated miner, trapper, or scientific station? A theft would draw an immediate report, and then they could concentrate their search.
Zamatev walked back to his table and sat down heavily. Soon, they must have him soon. It was impossible for him to remain unseen.
Why did the telephone not ring?

Some fifty miles away, not far from where the Tsipa River flowed into the Kalar, Joe Mack was huddled in a thick grove of mixed Japanese stone pine and larch watching a shack built against a cliff. Two men lived there, and one of them had just started off with an empty backpack. He had taken a path to the south, and from the way he had waved good-bye he had expected to be gone for more than a few hours. He was probably going to town.
The other man watched him go; then, taking some tools, he went into the portal of a mine tunnel.
Joe Mack waited an instant longer, and then using a carefully plotted route he went down the slope, keeping under cover until within fifty feet of the house.
He waited, trying to breathe evenly. He must make the attempt, even at the risk of discovery. An instant he poised, then he was across the open space and into the house.
A quick glance around. Warm clothing on hooks. He reached under one coat and took a thick sweatshirt. Quickly to the shelves. Rows of canned goods. He selected a dozen cans, taking them from the front row and moving others into their place so their loss would not be detected. He made a sack out of the shirt and put the cans in it.
There was much here he could use, but he wasted no time. Another quick glance around.
A hunting knife! It was under a table, lying upon some chunks of firewood.
He caught it up, took a quick look, and was out of the door and across the open space. There he paused and glanced back. No one in sight. The earth was packed hard, and he believed he had left no tracks. Carrying his sack, he climbed higher. When he had reached a point from which he could watch, he squatted on his heels and opened the first can.
Fish, of a kind he did not know. He had not eaten in two days so he ate with care. A bit, a nibble, then a bite. He drank a little of the oil in the can. Then he waited, but his stomach did not react. After a while he ate a little more, then drank from a trickle of water running from a crack in the rock. Crawling under some fallen boughs, he slept.
In the first light of morning, he finished the fish, then began to study the river. From where he sat he could see that the river he had been following flowed into a larger stream that flowed off to the northeast.
Putting the remaining cans in his pockets and inside his shirt, he donned the heavy sweatshirt. Then keeping under cover he went down the mountain to the river.
It was the Tsipa, but this he did not know. It was a river, and he crouched in the willows along the bank and watched it.
No boats, no travel, nothing.
For a half hour he waited, picking out the log he would use to cross.
When enough time had passed he went into the water and pushed off. The stream was not wide, but crossing was slow. Then, suddenly, he heard the put-put of a small motor!
A boat was coming up the river.