"H. Beam Piper - Four-Day Planet" - читать интересную книгу автора (Piper H Beam)

That would go over big here. Almost everybody thought horses were as
extinct as dinosaurs. I've seen so-called Westerns with the cowboys riding
Freyan oukry. I mentioned that, and then added:

"They'll think the old cattle towns like Dodge and Abilene were awful
sissy places, though."

"I suppose they were, compared to Port Sandor," Lautier said. "Are you
going aboard to interview the distinguished visitor?"

"Which one?" I asked. "Glenn Murell or Leo Belsher?"

Lautier called Leo Belsher something you won't find in the dictionary
but which nobody needs to look up. The hunters, ahead of us, heard him
and laughed. They couldn't possibly have agreed more. He was going to
continue with the fascinating subject of Mr. Leo Belsher's ancestry and
personal characteristics, and then bit it off short. I followed his eyes, and
saw old Professor Hartzenbosch, the principal of the school, approaching.

"Ah, here you are, Mr. Lautier," he greeted. "I trust that I did not keep
you waiting." Then he saw me. "Why, it's Walter Boyd. How is your father,
Walter?"

I assured him as to Dad's health and inquired about his own, and then
asked him how things were going at school. As well as could be expected,
he told me, and I gathered that he kept his point of expectation safely low.
Then he wanted to know if I were going aboard to interview Mr. Murell.

"Really, Walter, it is a wonderful thing that a famous author like Mr.
Murell should come here to write a book about our planet," he told me,
very seriously, and added, as an afterthought: "Have you any idea where
he intends staying while he is among us?"

"Why, yes," I admitted. "After the Peenem├╝nde radioed us their
passenger list, Dad talked to him by screen, and invited him to stay with
us. Mr. Murell accepted, at least until he can find quarters of his own."

There are a lot of good poker players in Port Sandor, but Professor Jan
Hartzenbosch is not one of them. The look of disappointment would have
been comical if it hadn't been so utterly pathetic. He'd been hoping to
lasso Murell himself.

"I wonder if Mr. Murell could spare time to come to the school and
speak to the students," he said, after a moment.

"I'm sure he could. I'll mention it to him, Professor," I promised.

Professor Hartzenbosch bridled at that. The great author ought to be
coming to his school out of respect for him, not because a
seventeen-year-old cub reporter sent him. But then, Professor