"Murray Leinster - A Logic Named Joe" - читать интересную книгу автора (Leinster Murray)

always the gravitation or the magnetism remains to some degree. That is what my friend in Ispahan
believesтАФso firmly that he might be willing to pay you as much as two thousand dollars for the coin in
your hand."
Tony looked at the coin with deep respect. He had never in all his life before owned anything worth
even a fraction of two thousand dollars. His conscience spoke in no uncertain terms. He said slowly:
"IтАФsuppose I ought to sell it, then. I can't really afford to carry around a luck-piece as valuable as
that. IтАФmight lose it." After a moment, he said wistfully: "I suppose your friend is a coin collector?"
"Not at all," said Mr. Emurian. "He is a businessman. He would use the coin, I am sure, to get into
this other world and set up a branch of his business there. He would import Barkutian dates or dried figs
or rugs, or possibly gold and frankincense and myrrh. He might deal in ivory and apes and peacocks in
exchange for Birmingham cutlery, printed cotton cloth, and kerosene lamps. And if the atmosphere were
congenial he might establish a residence there, staffed with pretty slave girls and Mameluke guards, and
settle down to a life of comfortable luxury with no fear of atomic bombs and Communism."
Tony said more wistfully still:
"How would the coin guide him to Barkut?"
Mr. Emurian gently shook an admonitory finger.
"You accept my legend as fact, my dear sir! You are a romantic!" Then he added comfortably: "I do
not know how he would use the coin as a guide. I do know that he would consider that it was not quite
real in this world, and hence should be exempt from some physical laws. He would expect it to have
some tendency to become more real, which it could only do by returning to its own time and place. How
the tendency would show itself, I cannot guess. But I will write down my friend's name and address. I
promise that he will pay you a high price for your token."
Tony Gregg looked almost hungrily at the coin. An idea came into his head. His conscience, its eyes
on that two thousand, protested indignantly.
"I'll let the coin decide," he said unhappily. "Heads I sell it, tails I don't."
He tossed. The coin thumped on the table. Tails. He gulped in relief and pushed back his chair.
"It's settled," he said, flushing a little in his excitement. "AndтАФand I won't take your friend's address
because IтАФdon't want to be able to change my mind."
Mr. Emurian beamed.
"A romantic!" he said approvingly. "It is admirable! I wish you good fortune, sir!"
Tony thanked him confusedly and paid his bill and departed.
Outside, in the spottily lighted street, he felt more or less dazed; his conscience prodded him, bitingly
reproachful, demanding that he go back and get the address he had just refused. This was in the Syrian
quarter, on lower East Broadway, with signs in Arabic in those scattered shop windows still lighted.
Most of the buildings about were dark and silent, and there were only very occasional lumbering trucks
for traffic. The atmosphere was a compound of the exotic and the commonplace that did not make for
clear thinking. The facts were staggering, too. If the coin in Tony's pocket was worth two thousand
dollars, that in itself was enough to make him dizzy. He had never carried more than a week's salary in his
pocket at any time, and never that for long.
So he rode uptown on a subway train which had come from Atlantic Avenue, Brooklyn, and would
go uptown only to Times Square. At Times Square he changed trains like a sleepwalker and went further
uptown still. He was lost in excited, dazzled speculation which hardly let him notice his surroundings. He
had come up from the subway exit and was walking toward his lodging when he realized he'd been too
agitated to eat the shishkebab he'd paid for. He came to a diner, and was still hungry. He automatically
flipped the coin. It came heads. He went into the diner. The man at the stool next to him got up and went
out. He left a paper that he'd stuck under him when he finished with it. Tony thriftily retrieved it while
waiting for his hamburger and coffee. Then a thrill went all the way down his backbone and he nearly
choked. The paper was Racing Form.
On the way uptown Tony'd had a bitter argument with his infuriated conscience. He'd insisted
defensively that if an importer of dates and dried figs and rugs in Ispahan could find profit in a journey to