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

"Take it easy," I suggested. There was a glass of water beside her; I picked it up,
offered it. She grabbed at it, sniffed, then drank, stuck her tongue into the glass to get the
last drop.
"You're hungry," I said. The waiter was there again, holding out a folded towel.
"You missed a spot on the side of your jaw, buddy," he said in a voice like wind on
hot sand. "Got a nice mouse working there, too." He flicked his eyes to my table mate,
took in the wet hair, the oversized coat, the hungry look. I took the towel. It was cold and
wet.
"Thanks. How about something to eatтАФhot soup, maybe?"
"Yeah, I can fetch you something." He went away without asking the questions; if
you are lucky, you meet a few like that in a lifetime. I waited until the fat man getting up
from the next booth had wheezed his way to the cashier, then I leaned across the table.
The big dark eyes looked at me, still wary.
"Who are you, miss?" I kept my voice at a confidential pitch. "What was it all about
back there?"
 Her expression tightened a bit. She had nice teeth, even and white; they were set
together like a soldier biting a bullet.
"I'm the fellow who butted in on your side, remember?" I tried out a small smile.
"Any enemy of Sethys is a friend of mine."
She shivered. Her fingers were locked together like two arthritics shaking hands. I put
my hand over them. They were as cold as marble.
"You've had a hell of an experience, but it's over now. Relax. I think we've got
enough now to take to the police. Even in these times attempted murder's enough to
interrupt the chief's nap for."
The waiter was back with two big plates of fish chowder on a tray, a couple of
sandwiches on the side. The girl watched him put hers down in front of her, eyed the big
spoon, then grabbed it with a ping-pong player's grip and dug in. She did not slow down
until the bowl was dry. Then she looked at my bowl, I was watching her with my mouth
openтАФa favorite expression of mine lately.
"Slow down, kid," I advised. "Here, try a sandwich." I picked up one of themтАФthick
slabs of bread with a generous pile of ham between themтАФand offered it. She put it in
her bowl, lifted the top bread slice, sniffed, then proceeded to clean out the ham with her
fingers. When she finished, she licked them carefully, like a cat.
"Well," I commented, "maybe now we can get on with our talk. You haven't told me
who you are."
She gave me an appealing look, flashed what might have been the hint of a smile, and
said something that sounded like: "Ithat ottoc otacu."
"Swell," I said. "That helps. The one person in this nutty world that might be able to
tell me what's going on, and you speak Low ZuleseтАФor is it Choctaw?"
"Ottoc oll thitassa," she agreed.
"Como se llamo?" I tried. "Comment vous appelez-vous? Vie heissen Sie? Vad Heter
du?"
"Ithat oll uttruk mapala yo," she said. "Mrack."
I gnawed the inside of my lip and stared at her. My head was throbbing; I could feel
my eyelids wince with each pulse beat.
"We'll have to find a quiet place to hole up," I said, talking to myself now. "It might
be a good idea to leave Miami, but to hell with that. I like it here. Mr. Sethys isn't going
to run me out of town before I've had my play."
A medium-sized man in a dark suit had left his bar stool, sauntered over near our
table. He stood six feet away, shaking a cigarette from a flip-top box, looking over the