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

guns. The poor fellow had been raving, blowing his top in his final delirium, that was all.
Nothing for me to get emotional about. The coin was probably a novelty piece, solid lead
with a gold wash, issued to commemorate a tie for third in basketball scored by good old
Pawtucket High in the hot season of '87.
And then again, maybe not.
Numismatics. They would know about coins. It would not take ten minutes to show it
to one of them, get an opinion. That would settle the question once and for all, and leave
me to get on undisturbed with the important business of providing for the needs of one
Malcome Irish, late of the U.S. Navy and later still of the army of the unemployed, a
healthy eater with a burning desire to experience the best his era had to offerтАФsuch as it
wasтАФwith the least possible discomfort.
"Thanks, Sal," I said, and headed for the elevators.
***
The twenty-eighth floor was silent, somber under rose-toned glare strips set in the
ceiling in a geometric pattern. Through wide double glass doors at the end of the corridor
I could see a bright room where people stood in the static poses of cocktail-party
conversation. I went along the pale, immaculate carpet, pushed through into a dull mutter
of talk. Faces turned my wayтАФbland, ordinary faces, calm to the point of boredom. A
waiter eased over, offered a small tray of sweet-smelling drinks in flimsy glasses. I lifted
one, let my eyes drift over the crowd.
They were all men, none very old, none very young, mostly in neat, dull-colored
evening clothes, a few wearing sportier tartans or pastels. Eyes followed my progress as I
moved across the room. A tall fellow with slicked-back gray hair drifted in from offside,
edged casually into my path. It was either talk to him or knock him downтАФa smooth
intercept. I gave him a crafty smile.
"I'm not party-crashing," I confided. "I'm not one of your group here, but I do have an
interest in coinsтАФ"
"Certainly, sir," he purred; the corners of his mouth lifted the required amount, no
more. "An amateur coin fancier, perhaps?"
 "Yes, in a small way. Actually, I wanted an opinion on a piece I picked up a while
back. . . ." I fished the big coin from an inner pocket. Light gleamed on it as I turned it
over in my fingers.
"Probably a phony," I said lightly, "but maybe you can tell me for sure." I held it out
to him. He did not take it. He was looking at the coin, the protocol smile gone now, lines
showing tight in his neck.
"Don't get the wrong impression," I said quickly. "I'm not asking for free service. I
realize that an expert opinion is worth a reasonable fee. . . ."
"Yes," he said. "I wonder, sir, if you would be so kind as to step this way for one
moment. I will ask Mr. Zablun to have a look at your, ah, find." He had a trace of accent,
I thought, a barely discernible oddness of intonation. He turned away and I followed him
across to a limed-oak slab door, through it and down a step into a lounge with a look of
institutional intimacy, like a corporation waiting room.
"If you'll have a seat for a moment. . . ." He waved a neat hand at a too-low chair
done in fuzzy gray polyon, disappeared through a door across the room. I stood where I
was, holding the coin on my palm. It was heavy enough, but so were all properly made
gold bricks. In a minute I would probably get a withering smile from some old geezer
with a pince-nez who would tell me my prize was inscribed in pig latin meaning "there's
a sucker born every minute." I put it between my teeth, bit down gently, felt the metal
yield. If it was gold, it was the pure article.
A door opened behind me and I jumped. I was as tense as a second-story man waiting