"Vonda N. McIntyre - The Adventure of the Field Theorems" - читать интересную книгу автора (McIntyre Vonda N)

he would propose a solution for which there were no proof."
"Then I have nothing to worry about." He smiled a bluff English smile.
Holmes strode into the swath of flattened green wheat, quartering the scene, inspecting both upright
and crushed stalks, searching the hedgerows. He muttered to himself, laughed and snarled; the sound
crossed the field like a voice passing over the sea. He measured the path, the width of the stalks left
standing, and the angles between the lines and curves.
The sun crept into the clear sky; the day promised heat.
"Can you feel it?" Sir Arthur said softly. "The residual power of the forces that worked here?" He
stretched out his hands, as if to touch an invisible wall before him.
And indeed, I felt something, though whether it was energy spilled by unimaginable beings, or the
Earth's quiet potential on a summer's day, I could not tell.
While Sir Arthur and I waited for Holmes to finish his search, a rough-shod man of middle years
approached.
"Good morning, Robert," Conan Doyle said.
"Morning, Sir Arthur," Robert replied.
"Watson, this is one of my tenants, Robert Holder."
Robert's work clothes were shabby and stained with sweat. I thought he might have taken more care
with his appearance, when he came to speak to his landlord.
To Robert, Sir Arthur said, "Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson have come to help us with our mystery."
"Mr. Holmes?" Robert exclaimed.
He glanced out into the field, where Holmes continued to pace and stoop and murmur.
"And you're Dr. Watson?" Robert's voice rose with the shock of finding himself in the presence of
celebrity. "Why, it's a pleasure to meet you, sir," he said to me. "My whole family, we read your
recountings in the evenings. The children learned their letters, sitting in my lap to listen to your tales."
"Er... thank you," I said, somewhat nonplussed. Though he was well-spoken for a farmer, I would not
have marked him as a great reader; and, more, I consider the perils encountered by Holmes to be far too
vivid for impressionable young children. However, it was not my place to correct Robert's treatment of
his offspring, particularly in front of his landlord.
"Have you found the villains?" Robert asked. "The villains who have crushed my best wheat field!"
Holmes strode across the field and rejoined us, a frown furrowing his brow. He appeared not even to
notice the presence of Sir Arthur's tenant.
"Useless," Holmes said. "Perfectly useless! Here, the artist stood to sketch the scene." He flung his
hand toward a spot where gray dust covered the scuffed ground. "And there! A photographer, with his
camera and flash powder. Fully six reporters and as many policemen trampled whatever evidence might
have been left." He did not pause to explain how he could tell the difference between the footprints of
reporters and those of policemen. "And, no doubt, when the sightseers arrive by the next train-- "
"I can easily warn them off," Sir Arthur said.
"To what purpose? The evidence is destroyed. No! I could conjecture, but conjecture is only half the
task. Proof, now-- that's a different story."
He glared out into the field as if it had deliberately invited careless visitors to blur the story written
there.
"If only," Holmes said softly, "the scene were fresh."
He turned abruptly toward Robert. He had taken the measure of the man without appearing to
observe him.
"You saw the lights," Holmes said. "Describe them to me."
"Are you Mr. Holmes?"
I blushed to admit, even to myself, that the rough farmer had a better grasp of common manners than
did my friend.
"Of course I am. The lights."
"The night was calm. A bit of fog, but no rain, no storms. I heard a strange noise. Like a musical