"Mack Reynolds - After Utopia" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reynolds Mack)

manhandle the heavy cabinet from the truck and into the
small inner chamber of the monument. Why he did this,
he had no idea whatsoever.
He was evidently waiting for something. He knew not
what. He stuck to his room, emerging only to take his
meals. Even that he discontinued after spotting Whiteley
passing the pensionтАЩs street window one day. From then
on, he had Luigi deliver his food to his room. The little
Italian said nothing. Probably he had seen men on the
run before and was possibly wondering if it was the sort
of thing where he might pick up a few thousand francs by
informing on his guest.
A piece of delicate electrical equipment from Sweden
finally came. He dumped all of his clothes and other
belongings from his suitcase and filled it with some of his
precision tools, the equipment he had been working on,
and a small folding entrenching tool.
He carried his suitcase out of his room, locking the
door behind him, paid off Luigi, and made his way into
the street. As he walked down from the Petit Zocco
toward the harbor and the Avenue de Espana, where he
could get a cab, he heard the sound of quick pattering
feet behind him.
He spun and stared. It was Dan Whiteley, running
hard.
Tracy Cogswell sprinted down the long incline and past
the Grand Mosque. He caromed from time to time
against protesting Moors and Arabs. Behind him, the
lanky Dan Whiteley was shouting in rage.
He was comparatively safe. Even if Whiteley had
gunfire in mind, it couldnтАЩt be done here. Besides, a dead
Tracy Cogswell could never return the nearly twenty
thousand dollars heтАЩd had custody of, and Whiteley had
no way of knowing it had all been spent by now. Besides,
again, no matter how dedicated the Canadian might be,
Cogswell doubted that the other could find it within him
to shoot his old companion. TheyтАЩd been through too
much together.
He slammed out onto the Avenue de Espana and with
providential luck, ran immediately into a Chico Cab the
moment he emerged from the Marine Gate. He climbed
in, yelled at the driver to take him to the Boulevard
Pasteur. He peered over his shoulder, saw the frantic
Dan Whiteley trying to find a cab and failing.
On Pasteur Boulevard he exchanged cabs and rode up
the Rue Alexandria to the Marshan district in the vicinity
of the Carthaginian tombs. Here he switched cabs again
and ordered the driver to the Grottos of Hercules on the
Atlantic coast.
It was dark by the time they arrived. He dismissed the