"Philip E. High - Butterfly Planet" - читать интересную книгу автора (High Phillip E)

Thirty minutes later he emerged in the outer suburbs, having changed trains nine times. Surely, for the
moment at least, he must be safe now.

Sweating and shaky he bought an iced drink from a street auto-vendor and looked about him.

Some distance away, an arched and ornate gateway bore the words “Green Belt". One of the city parks,
there at least he could relax on one of the benches and think. Furthermore, there were attendants at
frequent intervals, closed-circuit cameras to deter vandals and always a comforting policeman or two.

Inside the gate, a wide gravel path wound away between green and beautifully tended lawns. In the
distance, a lake shimmered, there were tree-lined walks, benches under spreading oaks and, despite
strolling people, a measure of solitude.

He found an unoccupied bench and sank gratefully and rather heavily into the soft pseudo-wood. Now
he must think. He was aware, however, that he had come to a dead-end. A period in his life had come to
an abrupt stop. He could never return to work or his apartment—they would be waiting. He had a small
nest-egg saved over the years which he could draw from any bank but it was no fortune. It would be
enough to carry him across the ocean to another continent but would do very little more. Certainly there
was not enough to approach the transmitter banks for transport to one of the stellar colonies.
Unsubsidized transport cost three thousand per light year and, even then, one needed official sanction
both from Earth and one's intended planetary destination.

He realized, with a kind of dull despair, that he was now a man on the run with very little future. The
police? What could he tell them? Only an unlikely story which he was unable to prove. If they believed
him, which was doubtful indeed, what could they do? An over-taxed organization like the police force
would hardly provide a permanent guard on such a slim story.

He sighed aloud and fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette.

“Here friend, save yourself some trouble.” A hand, holding a lighted cigarette, appeared suddenly in front
of him. At the same time, something cold pressed against the back of his neck.

“It's okay, take it, it's your brand but don't try anything.” The man came round from behind him and
seated himself at the far end of the bench. He was as lean, as professional, as his previous captors and
although of a different colouring and build might have been stamped from the same mould. His hand,
casually in right-hand pocket, clearly held and pointed a weapon.

Maynard shrugged and accepted the cigarette. “It didn't take you long?"

“Should it? We have agents all over, friend. In a way, it's a good thing, taught you a well-needed lesson.
There is no escape, nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, wherever you go, or how fast, you will always
find someone waiting at the other end. No, no need to get up yet, finish your cigarette, because, when we
get you back, you have another lesson to learn. After which, no doubt, you will be less inclined to
independent action."

A policeman strolled past and his captor said: “Hello, Fred, nice beat."

“Hello, Mr. Combes—yes, do with months of this, like a paid holiday.” He strolled on without glancing
back.