"Keith Laumer & Eric Flint - Future Imperfect" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laumer Keith)

"Sure, old-timer. Come on, now; got to pick you upтАФ"
"Pocket," he gasped out. "Take it. Show. . . ." His jaw dropped and his eyes glazed
over like hardening solder. I checked his wrist again. The last feeble flutter was gone.
For a minute, in the total silence, I looked at him, wondering how much, if any, of the
wild story he had told had been true, and how much delirium. His pocket, he had said. I
tried two, found only dust. There was an old-fashioned watch pocket under his belt that I
almost missed. I stuck a finger in, felt something smooth and cool. I eased it outтАФa big,
thick, round coin, just smaller than a silver dollar, with the tawdry yellow shine of pure
gold. There was a stylized representation of a bird on one side; the obverse was covered
with an elaborate pattern of curlicues that didn't quite seem to be writing.
I pocketed it, stood upтАФand heard a sound from the street.
***
Below the level of the glass- and plaster-littered sill where the front window had been
was a scatter of glass chips and broken brick. I went flat on them, the gun in my hand
without a conscious move on my part. The sound came again; the rattle of my plank
bridge under the weight of feet. It was thirty feet to the back of the shop, through an
obstacle course of fallen cans and broken bottles. I made it with no more sound than
smoke makes going up a chimney, got to my feet in an alley half choked with flood-
washed rubbish over-sprinkled with fallen stucco and drifted dust. It was almost dark
now; the sun had sunk behind the dust clouds. I moved along silent-footed in the dust
carpet, keeping near the wall to make my prints a little less obvious to anyone who might
try to follow.
The street at the end was empty. I went along it to the corner, risked a look, saw a
man in a dark suit come out of the store. He went to the plank, climbed up. The street was
dark except for long shafts of blood red light striking across through gaps in the
buildings. There were no birdcalls, no hum of insects, just the creaking from the man on
the bridge, going carefully on all fours. He reached the top, stepped off. He must have
found the dead sailor; that would satisfy him. Now he would be on his way. I watched
him move off out of sight; then I stepped out, hugging the building fronts. I was not
thinkingтАФjust reacting. It seemed suddenly important to keep him in sight, get the
license number of his car; maybe trail him. . . .
I heard the click of metal and dived, hit hard on cracked concrete, rolled, came up
among the folds of a dangling awning, heard the flat crack! of a gun. I could not tell what
direction the shot had come from; the dust muffled everything, killing echoes. Feet were
hurrying toward me. I heard a shout, an answer from above. The steps were slower now,
passing by mere feet from meтАФ
They halted, and I crouched, almost feeling the bullet crashing through my brain. It
was not a time for indecision. I doubled my legs, launched myself from my hideaway in a
driving tackle, hit him just below the kneesтАФface-first. I saw a blinding shower of stars,
and he was down, and I lunged, caught a swinging arm, drove a fist into what felt like his
throat. He made a noise like broken pipes, kicked out, but I was across his chest now, my
right hand on his throat. He pounded my back like a pal trying to clear my windpipe, then
quit and lay back. I got to my knees, breathing hard. Blood was running down into my
mouth, I squinted up at the higher section of the street, saw a head moving along away
from me. He had not heard the skirmishтАФor had not interpreted it correctly. He thought
his partner was still padding along the street, following whatever it was he had fired at.
Kneeling, I checked the dead man's pockets. They were clean. He wore no watch, no
ring, nothing personal.
Steps were coming back. I saw, not thirty feet away, a silhouette against the streak of
red sky under the smoke layer. The man looked at the plank, swung round, started down,