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

forward, as though it were some damn fool trying to protect his quarterback.
Like most blockers who'd confronted him during his career, it yielded. He
smiled into the doctor's plushly carpeted office, shook his head, and said,
"It's the humidity that warps it, sir, and it's the warp that sticks it to its
frame. Ah, they just don't make things like they used to, now do they?" Still
smiling, he rested the unhinged door against an inner wall. The lock plate
lost its charge and fell to the floor. "It's my son I've come about," he said,
sauntering up to the doctor's glossy desk. His ankles swished through blue
wool. He curled his knuckles into his palm, rested them on the desk, and
leaned forward. "You won't be causing the mother of my son any more
heartache by being stubborn about his release, now, will you?"
Two security guards, alerted by the receptionist, burst into the room. The
senior said, "All right, Mr. Feighan, let's just leave quietly, all right?"
Feighan had been feeling feisty since he'd rolled out of bed, so he turned
and said, "As quietly as a lamb, my boys. The instant my son is placed in
my own two arms. It's home I'll be taking him."
The doctor shook his head. "Throw him out," he ordered the guards.
They approached with exaggerated wariness, remembering, perhaps,
Super Bowl CXII, in which he'd thrown a 280-pound tackle over the
goalpost.
Feighan beamed. "What great good fortune," he told them. "The
ambulance boys won't have so far to wheel you to the Emergency Room."
The guards stopped, thought it over, and smiled to the doctor. "Nice
visiting with you, doc," said one. "Mr. Feighan, if I could get your
autograph? It's for my son, he's a wowser fan of yours."
By this time, the Feighan family lawyer had arrived, and presented the
doctor with a summons ordering him to show cause why he should not be
indicted for kidnapping.
Reluctantly, the doctor signed the discharge papers.




Chapter II
┬л^┬╗

In a windowless room on the far side of the Moon, Milford Hommroummy
prowled like a spider tugging the strands of its web: a man in Rio, a woman
in Hong Kong, a machine in ZurichтАж all fed him what his appetites
demanded. Forty-seven years old, he wore a six-pleat poncho with
Syra-quartz buttons and a Rigelian bat-snake belt. On his head, a horseshoe
of harsh black bristles held out against baldness. The furry brows over his
adamantine eyes were his softest facial features. First in his class at Harvard
Law School, he had a predator's instinct for vulnerability, but was kind to
cats. Brilliantly ruthless, he ran the Terran arm of The Organization, the
interstellar crime syndicate. Wealth dripped from it like rain from a cloud,
but for Hommroummy, there was never enough. He spun his schemes to
gather up more.
His view of the universe was distinctly his own. As he saw it, every
civilization extended into a dimension that transcended the apparent, the