"Alan Dean Foster - The Man Who Used the Universe" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

should know the tools of his trade.
He walked around the display screen and examined the body of the
jeweler. The man's eyes were wide open. Arms and legs were spread-eagled and
the wall cupped the body indenting it like an expensive contour couch would.
Loo-Macklin checked out the hole in the man's chest. He knew there
would be a large cavity on the other side, as well as a sizable gap in the
wall. The little rocket was _very_ powerful.
There was no need to pry the body out of the wall to check the rocket's
progress beyond. There was no point in touching the dead man.
The syndicate computer was well versed in the techniques of protection
used by individuals and shopkeepers. Loo-Macklin had studied what was known of
the store's system for days before deciding on the right weapon to counter it
with.
He could have simply walked in and fired, of course, but he felt
obligated to make one last try to obtain Lal's money. Lal hadn't insisted on
that, wanting to make an example of the arrogant jeweler. "Good advertising,"
he'd called it. But Loo-Macklin was thorough, and it seemed to him he ought to
try to collect just the same.
It hadn't worked. Now there were things to do, procedures to follow. He
turned and left the store, careful to close the door behind him. A double
glance showed a deserted street. It paid to be cautious. The store owner was
right when he'd said that the police in this district were notoriously honest.
The thick walls of the store had muffled the brief explosion the
rocket's charge had made. The street stayed empty.
Loo-Macklin strolled casually down the street, found an idling marcar,
and eased into the back seat. No one appeared to challenge him as he slipped
his credit card into the waiting slot and punched in the address of his
apartment. It lay in tube twelve, some four kilometers distant, tube twelve of
the forty that marched in orderly worm-rows across the smothered terrain of
this part of the northern continent of Evenwaith.
As the car sped smoothly along the Center Street, guided by the sensors
in its belly, he reflected on the murder he had committed. It was inevitable
in the line of work that society had forced him into that someday he'd be
compelled to kill.
He felt no different, nor had he expected to. He'd thoroughly
researched the psychological aspects and decided that his own profile fell
among those who would not be affected by such an act. He was mildly gratified
that his research was now supported by fact.
It had simply been another job, this taking of a life. He had performed
it with his customary efficiency. The accomplishment would be entered into and
duly noted by the master underworld computer system on Terra and it, in turn,
would probably direct that his status be raised at least ten levels. Perhaps
he would even jump into the sixties, status-wise. A successful murder was a
considerable achievement.
All he had to do now was get away with it, and that seemed to him no
more complicated than calculating the angle at which to fire the foot rocket.
Another car came up alongside his. The single passenger was an
Orischian, and the large, ungainly ornithorpe was obviously cramped by the
modest dimensions of the marcar. Its cab was not designed to accommodate the
alien's two-and-a-half-meter height, nor the enormous splayed feet with their