"HEINLEIN, Robert A. - The Cat Who Walked Through Walls" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

not call me 'Colonel'; I am Dr. Ames." I had to raise my voice not to be drowned
out by a roll of drums;
the late evening show was starting. The lights lowered and a spotlight
picked out the master of ceremonies.
"All right, all right!" My uninvited guest reached into a pocket, pulled
out a wallet. "But Tolliver must die by noon Sunday or we'll all be dead!"
He flipped open the wallet to show me an ID. A small dark spot appeared on
his white shirt front. He looked startled, then said softly, "I'm very sorry,"
and leaned forward. He seemed to be trying to add something but blood gushed
from his mouth. His head settled down onto the tablecloth.
I was up out of my chair at once and around to his right side. Almost as
swiftly Moms was at his left side. Perhaps Morris was trying to help him; I was
not-it was too late. A four-millimeter dart makes a small entry hole and no exit
wound;
it explodes inside the body. When the wound is in the torso, death follows
abruptly. What I was doing was searching the crowd-that and one minor chore.
While I was trying to spot the killer, Morris was joined by the headwaiter
and a busman. The three moved with such speed and efficiency that one would have
thought that having a guest killed at a table was something they coped with
nightly. They removed the corpse with the dispatch and unobtrusiveness of
Chinese stagehands; a fourth man flipped up the tablecloth, removed it and the
silver, was back at once with a fresh cloth, and laid two places.
I sat back down. I had not been able to spot a probable killer; I did not
even note anyone displaying a curious lack of curiosity about the trouble at my
table. People had stared, but when the body was gone, they quit staring and gave
attention to the show. There were no screams or expressions of horror;
it seemed as if those who had noticed it thought that they were seeing a
customer suddenly ill or possibly taken by drink.
The dead man's wallet now rested in my left jacket pocket.
When Gwen Novak returned I stood up again, held her chair for her. She
smiled her thanks and asked, "What have I missed?"
"Not much. Jokes old before you were born. Others that were old even before
Neil Armstrong was bom."
"I like old jokes, Richard. With them I know when to laugh."
"You've come to the right place."
I too like old jokes; I like all sorts of old things-old friends, old
books, old poems, old plays. An old favorite had started our evening: Midsummer
Night's Dream presented by Halifax Ballet Theater with Luanna Pauline as
Titania. Low-gravity ballet, live actors, and magical holograms had created a
fairyland Will Shakespeare would have loved. Newness is no virtue.
Shortly music drowned out our host's well-aged wit; the chorus line
undulated out onto the dance floor, sensuously graceful in half gravity. The
ragout arrived and with it the wine. After we had eaten Gwen asked me to dance.
I have this trick leg but at half gee I can manage the classic slow dances-
waltz, frottage glide, tango, and so forth. Gwen is a warm, live, fragrant
bundle; dancing with her is a Sybaritic treat.
It was a gay ending to a happy evening. There was still the matter of the
stranger who had had the bad taste to get himself killed at my table. But, since
Gwen seemed not to be aware of the unpleasant incident, I had tabled it in my
mind, to be dealt with later. To be sure I was ready any moment for that tap on