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

"Can I at least go to the zeep first? I'd hate to be buried with crap
in my pants."
"Tough," said Gregor. "D'you really think I'm going to let you get your
hands on anything but dirt?" His fingers squeezed the trigger. His younger
companion was a second behind.
Loo-Macklin didn't utter a sound as he pitched forward to the floor and
lay there. His hands quivered from the effects of the needler for several
seconds and then he was still.
Gregor rose from the couch and walked over to examine the body.
"Well, he wasn't much, was he?" murmured Vascolin, eyeing the corpse.
"No. I expected something more from him. However, he was only a kid.
Bright, had a future with the syndicate, but if the boss says..."
Vascolin was frowning. "Ah, Gregor ...?"
"What now?" The assassin was holstering his pistol inside his shirt.
"There isn't any blood, sir."
Gregor had just enough time to realize this was so before his head
disappeared. Vascolin whirled and raised his needler, but not fast enough. The
gun went off as his hands tightened convulsively on the trigger and punched a
tiny, blackened hole in the far wall. Then he crumpled like a rotten tree,
nearly smothering the already decapitated form of Gregor beneath him.
Loo-Macklin came quietly into the room, inspected the two bodies. The
silenced projectile weapon he'd used was placed carefully on a small table
until he considered how best to proceed.
First he would have to see if the simulacrum was salvageable. The
duplicate Loo-Macklin had cost a great deal. The firm, which had manufactured
it for him, was curious as to how he planned to use it. Most of their product
was purchased by producers of entertainment shows, since the government still
frowned on showing actual murder, dismemberment, and other such real violence
on the channels.
"I'm going to fool my friends," he'd told them, and they'd nodded
knowingly. A simulacrum in bed, for example, was always good for a few laughs.
So he'd stood outside the apartment and manipulated the viewer and
controls, seeing the action inside through crystal eyes, speaking through a
remote larynx of remarkable precision.
Now there was no question as to who'd sent the assassin, and he'd
always had a pretty good idea why Lal might want him killed. He sighed. He'd
begun the day with nothing more serious on his history than a few broken
faces. Now he'd slain not one man but three.
He still felt no different than he had at breakfast this morning. These
last two were more troublesome than the jeweler had been, but only from a
technical standpoint. Emotionally, they affected him not at all.
First he would have to dispose of the corpses and clean the room.
Ordinarily, in such situations, you contacted the members of a rival syndicate
who specialized in such janitorial specialities, but at the moment he wasn't
prepared to trust anyone. The world of illegals was full of gruff competition,
but Lal's equals were more allies than enemies. They'd be more inclined to
help a powerful syndicate boss like Lal than a mistrusted and unpredictable
youth.
It would take quite a while to properly and completely dispose of the
bodies, since the apartment's trashall couldn't handle any debris larger than