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

here. We both need rest. In the morning. . . ."
Our waiter caught my eye, tipped his head. I went over. He went on arranging salt
and pepper shakers on a tray, spoke from the corner of his mouth.
"I don't know if it's got anything to do with you folks," he said very softly. "But
there's a couple fellers got this place staked out, front and rear."
***
The back door let onto a service passage, very old, very dark, very choked with
overflowing garbage cans, heaped plastic cartons, weeds, and less savory reminders of
the collapse of the municipal refuse collection system. I was getting pretty familiar with
the back alleys of the city. This seemed like one of the less appealing in which to be
cornered.
The girl stayed close beside me, scanning the dark path in both directions; even
without words she seemed to understand the situation. She was nervous, but there was no
panic in the way she watched me and followed my lead.
I kept to the wall, moved off easy-footed. The boy at the back door had been posted
down near the street, according to my waiter friend. We might be stealing a march on
himтАФor walking right into his arms, if he had changed position. The first warning I had
was a gasp from the girl. She stopped, pointed. I saw him thenтАФflattened against the wall
a good twenty feet from the end of the alley. I pulled at her, and she resumed walking,
keeping on my left, half a pace behind. My hope was that he had not noticed the
momentary hesitation.
Ten feet from him, I started talkingтАФsomething about the weatherтАФwhich gave me
an excuse to look away from him as the gap closed. Five feet, a yard, one more paceтАФ
I spun, swung my fist backhanded, caught him just under the ribs in the same instant
that he lifted a foot to swing in behind us. He doubled over and I kneed him, felt his nose
go against my shin. Then he was down, twisting over on his back, one arm groping. I
stamped on his wrist, saw the glint of metal as a small gun spun away, clattered against
the wall. He lunged, tried to bite my leg. I got a grip on his coat, jerked him half to his
feet, yanked the coat down off his shoulders, then held him by the arms.
"Get his tie," I hissed at the girl. I made meaningless motions with my head. She
pulled the belt from her oversized coat, went to one knee, took two turns around his
wrists and cinched it up as efficiently as a head nurse changing a diaper.
"Tell me about it, mister," I said into his ear. He kicked out, squirmed, spat at me. His
mouth was working like someone's who had just gotten a big bite of a bad apple. Then
his face tried to stretch itself around to the back of his head. The tendons of his neck
stood out like lift cables; his legs straightened, thrust hard. Suddenly there was foam on
his mouth. Then he went slack. His wrist when I grabbed it had as much pulse as a leg of
lamb.
"I guess I wasn't kidding about the cyanide in the back tooth," I said to the balmy
night air. The girl watched with eyes that seemed bigger than ever, while I checked his
pockets. Nothing.
I stood up. "The Case of the Inept Assassins," I said aloud. "I don't know what the
game is that's afoot, but I've got a feeling we're not winning, in spite of the impressive
score we're racking up. They must have manpower to burn."
 "Im allak otturu," the girl said. She was pointing at a rotted door standing six inches
ajar, its lock broken by the frenzy of the man who lay dead at my feet. I pushed it open;
across a littered room filled with dark shapes, faint predawn light glowed through dusty
windows.
"It looks too easy," I said. "But let's try it anyway."
Ten minutes later, five blocks east of the scene of the skirmish, we found a sagging