"Keith Laumer - Catastrophe Planet" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laumer Keith)

I sorted through the strewn cans, found a couple that seemed sound, cut the tops off.
The odor of kidney beans and applesauce made my jaws ache. He shook his head.
"You've got. . . . get clear. Leave me my gun."
"You won't need a gunтАФ"
"I need it, mister." His whispering voice had taken on a harsh note. "I'd have used it
on myselfтАФbut I was hoping they'd find me. I could take a couple of them along."
"Forget it, old-timer. You'reтАФ"
"No time for talk. They're hereтАФin the town. I saw them, before. They won't give
up." His eyes got worried. "You've got a car?"
I nodded.
"They'll spot it. Maybe already have. Get. . . . going. . . ."
I used the knife blade to spoon beans into his mouth. He turned his face away.
"Eat it, sailorтАФit's good for you."
His eyes were on my face. "How'd you know I was Navy?"
I nodded toward his hand. He lifted it half an inch, let it fall back.
"The ring. I should have gotten rid of it, but. . . ."
"Now take your beans like an old campaigner."
He gritted his teeth, twisted his face. "Can't eat," he protested. "God, the pain. . . ."
I tossed the can aside. "I'm going out and check the car," I said. "Then I'll be back
for you."
"Listen," he croaked. "You think I'm raving, but I know what I'm saying. Get clear
of this townтАФnow. Got no time to explain. Just move out."
I grunted at him, went out into the street, recovered my plank, propped it with its
end resting on the upper edge of the ravine that split the pavement. It was a shaky bridge;
I went up it on all fours. As I was about to rise and step clear, I saw a movement ahead.
My car sat ten yards away where I had left it, thickly coated now with new-fallen pumice.
A man was circling it warily. He stepped in close, wiped a hand across the canopy,
peered into the interior. I stayed where I was, kneeling on the plank over the dark fissure,
just the top of my head above ground level.
The man went around to the driver's side, flipped the lever that opened the hatch,
thrust his head inside. I shifted position, eased my gun out. I could not afford to be
robbed of the carтАФnot here, not now.
Instead of climbing in, he stepped away from the car, stood looking intently around
at the ruined storefronts. He took a step my way, abruptly stopped dead, reached inside
his coat, snatched out a small revolver, brought it up and in the same movement fired.
The bullet threw dust in my face, sang off across the street and struck wood with a dull
smack. Two more shots cracked before the first had stopped echoingтАФall this in perhaps
three-quarters of a second. I hugged the board under me, dragged my gun clear as another
shot scored concrete inches from my face. I squinted through haze, centered my sights on
the black necktie of the man as he stood with his feet planted wide apart, frowning down
the length of his outstretched arm. His small automatic flashed bright in the same instant
that my shot boomed. He leaped back, bounced against the side of the car, went down on
his back in the dust.
My breath went out in a long sigh, I holstered the .38, scrambled up to stand on the
side of the riven street. He was lying on his side like a tired bum curled up for a nap, his
face resting in a black paste of bloodied dust, lots of dustcaked blood on his shirt front.
He was wearing a neat, dark suit, now dusty, new-looking shoes with almost unscratched
soles. His age might have been anything from thirty-five to fifty. His eyes were open and
a film of dust had already dimmed their shine. One hand was outflung, still holding the
gun. I picked it up, looked it over absently. It was a Spanish automatic, nickel-plated. I