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

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 for the
down car. The bouncer was back with a short, plumpish fellow with artificial-looking black hair and
a darting eye.
"May I present Mr. Zablun," the gray-haired smoothie waved a hand in a prestidigitator's
gesture. "He will be happy to have a look at the piece, Mr. ummm. . . ."
"Philbert," I supplied. "Jimmy Philbert, from Butte, Montana."
Mr. Zablun's head bobbed on his short neck in a Prussian-type nod. He came across and held
out a cluster of fingers. I poked the coin at them and he thrust it up under his eye as though he were
wearing a jeweler's lens. Then he held it in front of the other eye, giving it a crack at the find.
He and Gray Hair exchanged a quick glance. I started to reach for the coin, but Zablun had
turned for the side door.
"If you'll just follow along, Mr. Philbert," Gray Hair said. He waved that graceful hand again
and I trailed the short man along a narrow passage into a low-ceilinged room with a plain desk with
a draftsman's lamp shedding a cold light on a green show blotter. Zablun went briskly behind the
desk, pulled open a drawer, got out a black cloth, a small electronic-looking gadget, a set of lenses
like measuring spoons, began fussing over my trophy. If it was a hog-calling award, at least it was
not obvious at a glance.
 Gray Hair stood by, not saying anything, no expression on his face. There was a small window
at the side of the office; through it I could see a red glare on the water from the rising moon.
Zablun was putting things back in the drawer now, being very precise about their arrangement.
He placed the coin back on the desktop at the exact center of the pool of light, stood.
"The coin is genuine," he said indifferently. "Gold, twenty-four point nine five. Mint
specimen."