"Keith Laumer - The Ultimax Man" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laumer Keith)

"I don't trust your aim."

"Save it, rat. You got five seconds to square it with the man upstairs. One ..."

He listened to the count. It seemed to go on and on. Then it reached five. Light blossomed from
the muzzle of the gun, illuminating the scene with a warm yellow glow. The plume of flame
elongated, ringed with viscid smoke which slowed, stiffened into immobility. The killer stood,
feet apart, leaning forward, his left arm out, fingers spread, the gun in his right fist thrust
out before him. His lips were pulled back from his teeth; his eyes were half-closed, intent,
unmoving. . . .

Behind him, something stirred near the alley mouth. A slightly built man in a gray derby and a
dapper morning coat complete with ascot and bou-tonniere was picking his way fastidiously back
toward the little tableau so curiously arrested. His face—visible by its own pale glow—was narrow,
elderly, prim, with a neatly groomed hairline mustache. He swung a slim silver-headed cane from
one pigskin-gloved hand, glanced curiously at the immobile gunner as he edged past him, came to a


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halt before the injured man. He looked him over assessingly, his lips pursed in an expression of
mild disapproval.

4 Keith Laumer

You seem to have managed your affairs very badly, my lad, a perfectly clear voice spoke inside
Montgomerie's head.

He tried to speak; nothing happened. He tried to move: same result.

Tush, no need to grow excited. Nothing will happen to you that hasn't happened to uncounted
billions of other organisms in the short history of the planet.

HELP, Montgomerie yelled silently. GET ME OUT OF HERE.

Exactly my intention, my boy. Simply be calm. In fact. . . it might be as well if you'd just drop
off to sleep . . .

A heavy curtain of drowsiness wrapped itself around Montgomerie's thoughts. He was dimly aware of
the old gentleman stepping briskly closer, clamping him under an arm, and walking up into the air.
He caught one fading glimpse of tarred rooftops, ventilators, TV antennae, dropping away below.
Then he let it all go and slid, faster and fester, down into the bottomless vortex of
unconsciousness.

This, Damocles reflected contentedly, is what I catt living. Snoozing away in a first-class seat
on a luxury airliner bound for the hot spots of gay Paree. Out the window, the moon will be
shining down on the billows, and in a second or two the stewardess will ease up to me and say . .
.