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

felt that tap on the shoulder? "Gwen, I'll take you up on that offer. If the
proctors want me, they'll find me. But I would like to discuss this with you in
greater detail than we can manage here, no matter how carefully we keep our
voices down."
"Good." She stood up. "I won't be long, dear." She headed for the lounges.
As I stood up Morris handed me my stick and I leaned on it as I followed
her toward the lounges. I don't actually have to use a cane-I can even dance, as
you know-but using a cane keeps my bad leg from getting too tired.
When I came out of the gentlemen's lounge, I placed myself in the foyer,
and waited.
And waited.
Having waited long past what is reasonable I sought out the maitre d'h6tel.
'Tony, could you please have some female member of your staff check the ladies'
lounge for Mistress Novak? I think that it is possible that she may have become
ill, or be in some difficulty."
"Your guest. Dr. Ames?"
"Yes."
"But she left twenty minutes ago. I ushered her out myself."
"So? I must have misunderstood her. Thank you, and good night."
"Good night. Doctor. We look forward to serving you again."
I left Rainbow's End, stood for a moment in the public corridor outside
it-ring thirty, half-gravity level, just clockwise from radius two-seventy at
Petticoat Lane, a busy neighborhood even at one in the morning. I checked for
proctors waiting for me, halfway expecting to find Gwen already in custody.
Nothing of the son. A steady flow of people, mostly groundhogs on holiday
by their dress and behavior, plus pullers for grimp shops, guides and ganders,
pickpockets and priests. Golden Rule habitat is known systemwide as the place
where anything is for sale and Petticoat Lane helps to support that reputation
insofar as fleshpots are concerned. For more sober enterprises you need only go
clockwise ninety degrees to Threadneedle Street.
No sign of proctors, no sign of Gwen.
She had promised to meet me at the exit. Or had she? No, not quite. Her
exact words were, "I won't be long, dear." I had inferred that she expected to
find me at the restaurant's exit to the street.
I've heard all the old chestnuts about women and weather, La donna e
mobile, and so forth-I believe none of them. Gwen had not suddenly changed her
mind. For some reason- some good reason-she had gone on without me and now would
expect me to join her at her home.
Or so I told myself.
If she had taken a scooter, she was there already; if she had walked, she
would be there soon-Tony had said, 'Twenty minutes ago." There is a scooter
booth at the intersection of ring thirty and Petticoat Lane. I found an empty,
punched in ring one-oh-five, radius one-thirty-five, six-tenths gravity, which
would take me as close as one can get by public scooter to Gwen's compartment.
Gwen lives in Gretna Green, just off Appian Way where it crosses the Yellow
Brick Road-which means nothing to anyone who has never visited Golden Rule
habitat. Some public relations "expert" had decided that habitants would feel
more at home if surrounded by place names familiar from dirtside. There is even
(don't retch) a "House at Pooh Comer." What I punched in were coordinates of the
main cylinder: 105, 135, 0.6.