"James P. Hogan - The Proteus Operation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hogan James P)

And Sleep has deadened the driver's ear;
And the signals flash through the night in vain,
For Death is in charge of the clattering train.'

He had come across the lines in a volume of Punch cartoons when he was a boy back at
school in Brighton.

'Ahem." Mary coughed discreetly behind him.

Churchill turned to find her standing in the doorway, a reserved, middle-aged woman with a
pallid complexion and brown hair tied neatly back in a bun. She was wearing a plain black skirt
and white blouse ruffled at the shoulders. She was looking mildly perplexed and holding some
crumpled brown paper that looked like the outer wrappings of a parcel. There was a small package
of some kind in her other hand. "Yes, Mary?" Churchill asked. "What is it?"

Mary came into the room. "This arrived a few minutes ago by registered mail," she replied,
sounding puzzled. "It's most extraordinary, sir. I don't recall seeing anything quite like it
before."

"What? Here, let me see. What's so odd about it?" Churchill went over to her and took the
package, then moved back to his desk to examine it. It was about the size of an average book,
wrapped tightly in thick, white paper, and sealed with strips of a shiny, transparent tape that
seemed, from a corner that had lifted slightly, to be adhesive. A new type of packaging material,
he presumed. There was a message written in bold, black letters on one side:

'TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE WINSTON S. CHURCHILL, M.P STRICTLY FOR YOUR EYES ONLY'

Churchill turned the package over. There were no other markings. "Hmm, this is rather
extraordinary, isn't it," he mused. "Well, you can see what it says. I suppose we'd better play by
the rules, eh? Thank you, Mary. You can leave it with me." He sat down, swivelled back to face the
desk, and turned the package over again. Then he realized that Mary had stopped uncertainly after
moving only a few paces toward the door "Yes?" he said, turning again and beginning to sound
irritable. "What is it now?"

Mary looked back at the package nervously. "It's just that I...well, that is...it couldn't
be dangerous, could it -- one of those anarchist bombs or something? I could call the police and
ask them to look at it."

Churchill stared at the package, his face set in a scowl. Then he shook his head and waved
a hand impatiently. "Oh, anarchist bomb, indeed. You really do read too many cheap thrillers, you
know, Mary. It's probably nothing more than a futile attempt at humor from Bernard Shaw or
somebody." Mary hesitated for a moment longer, then nodded and left, still not looking very happy.
Churchill turned back to the desk once again, rummaged in a drawer for a large pair of scissors,
and began opening the package. He handled it, he couldn't help noticing, just a little bit more
gingerly than would have been normal.

Inside several layers of thick paper was a box with a lid, both formed from an unusual


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