"Mack Reynolds - North Africa 03 - The Best Ye Breed" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reynolds Mack)

The Best Ye Breed
Mack Reynolds

I

PAUL KOSLOFF

Happily, it was a grim night. It was cloudy and there was a fine drizzle.
Paul Kosloff didnтАЩt know whether or not the grounds of the mansion were
patrolled, either by men or by dogs, but, if they were, either man or beast
was going to be shelter-conscious.
Most likely, the grounds were so patrolled. His target was known to be
security-conscious almost to the point of phobia.
The iron picket fence surrounding the estate was his first hurdle. There
were no trees near it and it was too high to climb easily. Besides,
undoubtedly it was gimmick-wired at the top in such manner as to tip off
the guardsтАФeither that or electrocute him. He was going to have to go
through it.
The main gate was out of the question. He had seen the two men
stationed there, one to each side in armored booths and undoubtedly
armed to the molars. He continued to stroll along, on the other side of the
street, following the fence. And, yes, behind the house was a smaller gate
which was unattended.
Paul Kosloff crossed over to it. It had a heavy lock. He brought a
scrambler from his pocket and activated it, then an electronic lock pick
which he had gotten from the boys in the Rube Goldberg department. Its
magnets sucked up to the lock, over the keyhole, and he slowly rotated it.
When the lock reluctantly gave up its secrets, he pushed the gate open and
slipped through. He relocked it, then deactivated the scrambler.
Thus far things were going better than he had hoped. Bending almost
double, he scurried toward the rear of the mansion.
Luckily, this part of the estate was mostly gardens, complete with trees,
complete with shrubs. He had a good chance of going undetected,
certainly until he got reasonably near the house.
The dog, running hard, a brown streak with distended, slavering jaws,
was upon him almost before he spotted it. A Doberman pinscher,
recognizable even in this light by its long forelegs and wide hindquarters.
Paul Kosloff had worked out with war dogs while taking commando
training long years before. He had just time to fling himself into position
before the dog jumped. He spun sideward to the left and his right hand
shot out and grabbed the right paw of the large smooth-coated terrier. He
continued to swing mightily. The dog had time for only one loud yelp of
confusion, before he smashed it into the trunk of a tree.
It fell to the ground, momentarily, at least, stunned. Paul Kosloff, to
make sure, kicked it twice in the side of the head, immediately behind the
clipped ears.
He wiped the back of his left hand over his forehead, finding a beading
of cold sweat there. He shook his head and continued on his way toward
the house.
A chink of light began to manifest itself, and a door was opening. He