"E. C. Tubb - Best SF of E C Tubb" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tubb E. C)

bottled dreams. Frank leaned close to the window, squinting against the
lights, staring inside and checking what he saw. The place seemed deserted,
the owner probably busy out back. A cash register stood on the counter flanked
by stacked cans. He waited, counting seconds. A minute and a half and no sign
of life. He activated, walked into the store, operated the cash register and
took out a thin sheaf of bills. He was almost at the door when the owner
appeared. A big, beefy man with a balding head and savage eyes. He came
charging from a room at the rear shouting and waving a baseball bat.
"Hold it you! Move and I'll smash your head in!"
He meant it. Frank squeezed the ring -- nothing happened. Nothing would
happen until the time was up. He had to stall.
"Now listen," he said. "It's not like it seems. It's a publicity stunt
see? Just for advertising. You'll -- "
"By God, the nerve of it!" The owner came closer, lifting the club,
snarling his hate. "A stinking thief walks in and robs the till, then gives
you a load of mouth. I'll give you mouth! I'll give you a damned sight more
than that!"
Frank squeezed his fingers keeping the stud depressed as he dived to
one side. The owner was fast. The club slammed against the edge of the door
then followed him down. He felt and heard the crack of bone as it slammed
against his knee. He rolled as it lifted for another blow -- and he was
leaning against the window the glass cool against his brow. He fought to
control his breath. He was safe his knee uninjured, the store seemingly
deserted.
Mopping sweat he felt the bloom of anger. The bastard had tried to kill
him. To smash in his skull for the sake of a little cash. He would be lounging
in his room, watching television, enjoying something to eat. He'd have a
gimmick rigged to the door to signal when anyone came in. That, and maybe a
mirror to watch the till. Nursing his club and aching to use it. The
blood-crazed slob! He had it coming!
Again he entered the empty store and opened the register but this time,
instead of heading for the door, snatched up a bottle and moved to the rear.
As the owner appeared he swung at the balding skull. The bottle shattered into
a mass of sparkling fragments mixed with a flood of wine, blood and spattered
brain. He dropped the neck and scooped up the club. The shape of a wallet
bulged the rear pocket of the dead man's jeans. He bent, dragged it free,
flipped it open and saw a wad of bills. Straightening he thrust it into a
pocket and strode towards the door. A looming shadow blocked the opening.
Quickly he rammed his foot against the panel.
"Sorry. We're closed."
"I want a drink. I gotta have a drink." The voice was a begging whine.
"I got money, see?" A hand lifted, waving a crumpled note. "Just a bottle of
something cheap."
A lush and close to desperation. Frank recognized the danger. To lock
him out was to invite curses, broken windows, unwanted attention. To let him
in was to give him a view of murder.
He activated the ring and was standing by the till cash in his hand.
Quickly he reached for a bottle and moved to the rear. This time he didn't
smash in the owner's skull but swung hard and low at the belly and groin. He
took the wallet from where he knew it would be. The club remained where it had