"Spider Robinson - Telempath" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robinson Spider)

been a gray-and-white Persian tom lay against a shattered fire hydrant whose faded red surface was spattered with
brighter red and less appealing colors. Overworked imagination produced the odor of singed meat.
IтАЩm as much cat-people as the One-Sleeved Mandarin, and three shocks in quick succession, in the condition I
was in, were enough to override all the iron discipline of CollaciтАЩs training. Eyes stinging, I stumbled out onto the
sidewalk, uttered an unspellable sound, and pumped three slugs into a wrecked тАЩ82 Buick lying on its right side
across the street.
I was pretty badly rattledтАФonly the third slug hit the exposed gas tank. But it was magnesium, not lead: the car
went up with a very satisfactory roar and the prettiest fireball you ever saw. The left rear wheel was blown high in
the air; it soared gracefully over my head, bounced off a fourth-floor fire escape and came down flat and hard an inch
behind me. Concrete buckled.
When my ears had stopped ringing and my eyes uncrossed, I became aware that I was rigid as a statue. So much
for catharsis, I thought vaguely, and relaxed with an effort that hurt all over.
The cat was still dead.
I saw almost at once why he startled me so badly. The tobacconistтАЩs display window from which he had leaped
was completely shattered, so my subconscious sentries had incorrectly tagged it as one of the rare unbroken ones.
Therefore, they reasoned, the hurtling object must be in fact emerging from the open door just beyond the window.
Anything coming out a doorway that high from the ground just had to be a Musky, and my hand is much quicker
than my eye.
Now that my eye had caught up, of course, I realized that I couldnтАЩt possibly track a Musky by eye. Which was
exactly why IтАЩd been keyed up enough to waste irreplaceable ammo and give away my position in the first place.
Carlson had certainly made life complicated for me. I hoped I could manage to kill him slowly.
 This was no consolation to the cat. I looked down at my Musky-gun, and found myself thinking of the day I got it,
just three months past. The first Musky-gun I had ever owned myself, mine for as long as it took me to kill Carlson.
After my father had presented it to me publicly, and formally charged me with the avenging of the human race, the
friends and neighborsтАФand dark-eyed AliaтАФhad scurried safely inside for the ceremonial banquet. But my father
took me aside. We walked in silence past fields of growing corn to MamaтАЩs grave, and in the distance the setting sun
over the Mountain looked like a knothole in the wall of Hell. Dad turned to me at last, pride and paternal concern
fighting for control of his ebony features, and said, тАЬIsham . . . Isham, I wasnтАЩt much older than you when I got my
first gun. That was long ago and far away, in a place callea MontgomeryтАФthings were different then. But some
things never change.тАЭ He tugged an earlobe reflectively, and continued, тАЬPhil Collaci has taught you well, but
sometimes heтАЩd rather shoot first and ask directions later. Isham, you just canтАЩt go blazing away indiscriminately.
Not ever. You hear me?тАЭ
The crackling of the fire around the ruined Buick brought me back to the present. Damn, you called it again, Dad,
I thought as I shivered there on the sidewalk. You canтАЩt go blazing away indiscriminately.
Not even here in New York City.
It was getting late, and my left arm ached abominably where Grey Brother had marked meтАФI reminded myself
sharply that I was here on business. I had no wish to pass a night in any city, let alone this one, so I continued on up
the street, examining every building I passed with extreme care. If Carlson had ears, he now knew someone was in
New York, and he might figure out why. I was on his home territoryтАФevery alleyway and manhole was a potential
ambush.
There were stores and shops of every conceivable kind, commerce more fragmented and specialized than I had
ever seen before. Some shops dealt only in a single item. Some I could make no sense of at all. What the hell is an
тАЬrkoтАЭ?
I kept to the sidewalk where I could. I told myself I was being foolish, that I was no less conspicuous to Carlson
or a Musky than if IтАЩd stood on second base at the legendary Shea Stadium, and that the street held no surprise
tomcats. But I kept to the sidewalk where I could. I remember MamaтАФa long time agoтАФtelling me not to go in the
street or the monsters would get me.
They got her.
Twice I was forced off the curb, once by a subway entrance and once by a supermarket. Dad had seen to it that I
had the best plugs Fresh Start had to offer, but they werenтАЩt that good. Both times I hurried back to the sidewalk and