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

"But- Colonel, it's far more urgent to explain who must die and
why you are the man who must kill him! You must admit that!"
"I don't have to admit anything. Your name, sir! And your ID. And
please do 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