"Kevin O'Donnel Jr. - The Journeys of McGill Feighan 01 - Caverns" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Donnell Jr Kevin)

next time, when the curtain of its tank whispers into the wall, it finds itself
staring at an identical tank, and barking at an identical transceiver?
A disciplined man, he returned his attention to the matter at hand. "No,
sir," he said, consulting his notes, "it wouldn't be worth our while to
smuggle Furthten mugger fish onto Terra. They're legal here."
"Just a thought," crackled the speakers. "This morning's paper. McGill
Feighan. Young child swallowed by ochre alien. Discharged from hospital
yesterday. Bring him here."
"May I ask why?" He spoke the name to his legal pad.
"Alien stooge of Far Being Retzglaran. Never met, but destinies have
intersected. Paid heavy price. Will intersect again, could cost more. Must be
prepared. If FBR interested by Feighan, must be interested also. Bring him
here."
"Who is this Far Being Retzglaran?" Crossing his legs, he squinted into
the gases for some sign of Gryll. His superior sounded flustered, and that
was rare enough to merit investigation.
"Do not know. Origin a mystery. Home planet a mystery. Present
location a mystery. Detect only through effects of subordinate's actions. Like
studying pebble-thrower by examining ripples in pond. Two centuries ago,
one ripple closed four branch offices. FBR is enemy. Bring Feighan here."
"Dead or alive?" he asked idly.
"Alive," snapped the speakers. "And quickly."
Hommroummy nodded, rose, and, after the ritual bow, sauntered out of
the underground room. It shouldn't be difficult to find and snatch a newly
born child. He'd give the job to The Nurse.


Early in June of 2083, The Nurse approached the modest two-story home of
Patrick Sean Feighan and Nicole Buongiorno. The Nurse was a 190 cm.
Korean-American with black belts in more martial arts than there are arts on
Mars. Her trade name came from the first-aid kit she carried everywhere. In
that line of work, it was useful.
Her subdued tweed suit shortened her steps; the genuine leather
briefcase, a legacy from her grandfather, bumped the outside of her
powerful right thigh. She took good care of the briefcase. It gave her an
authentic look. And the kit fit neatly inside it.
At her side strode sharp-nosed Taddeucz, who would have been a
race-pilot if The Organization hadn't persuaded him to drive its hovercars.
Though disinclined to engage in hand-to-hand combat, he was reasonably
competent with the-semiautomatic needler under his left armpit.
"Cover the back," she told him, as she turned up the walk to the door.
 "I've got a better idea," he said. "I'll cover the front. You go in through the
back."
"You always have to change my plans, don't you?" she complained.
"Why is your way better?"
"Because the car's out front, and if you flee, you'd best have me out front
with it. Comprende?"
"Oh, all right." She walked around the side of the cream-painted house.
Glancing at the windows was futile; the faded olive drapes were closed. A
buckeye tree cast its shade on the south face of the house, and its bark