"Murray Leinster - The Gadget Had a Ghost" - читать интересную книгу автора (Leinster Murray)

THE GADGET

HAD

A GHOST
 was Istanbul, and the sounds of the city—motor-cars and
HIS
clumping donkeys, the nasal cries of peddlers and the distant roar
of a jet-plane somewhere over the city—came muted through the
windows of Coghian’s flat. It was already late dusk, and Coghian
had just gotten back from the American College, where he taught
physics. He relaxed in his chair and waited. He was to meet Laurie
later, at the Hotel Petra on the improbably-named Grande Rue de
Petra, and hadn’t too much time to spare; but he was intrigued by
the unexpected guests he had found waiting for him when he
arrived. Duval, the Frenchman, haggard and frantic with
impatience; Lieutenant Ghalil, calm and patient and impressive in
the uniform of the Istanbul Police Department. Ghalil had
introduced himself with perfect courtesy and explained that he had
come with M. Duval to ask for information which only Mr.
Coghlan, of the American College, could possibly give.
They were now in Coghian’s sitting-room. They held the iced
drinks which were formal hospitality. Coghian waited.
“I am afraid,” said Lieutenant Ghalil, wryly, “that you will think
us mad, Mr. Coghian.”
Duval drained his glass and said bitterly, “Surely I am mad! It
cannot be otherwise!”
Coghian raised sandy eyebrows at them. The Turkish lieutenant
of police shrugged. “I think that what we wish to ask, Mr. Coghian,
is: Have you, by any chance, been visiting the thirteenth century?”
 Coghlan smiled politely. Duval made an impatient gesture.
“Pardon, M. Coghian! I apologize for our seeming insanity. But that
is truly a serious question!”
This time Coghlan grinned. “Then the answer’s ‘No.’ Not lately.
You evidently are aware that I teach physics at the College. My
course turns out graduates who can make electrons jump through
hoops, you might say, and the better students can snoop into the
private lives of neutrons. But fourth-dimension stuff—you refer to
time-travel I believe—is out of my line.”
Lieutenant Ghalil sighed. He began to unwrap the bulky parcel
that sat on his lap. A book appeared. It was large, more than four
inches thick, and its pages were sheepskin. Its cover was heavy,
ancient leather—so old that it was friable—and inset in it were
deeply-carved ivory medallions. Coghlan recognized the style. They
were Byzantine ivory-carvings, somewhat battered, done in the
manner of the days before Byzantium became successively
Constantinople and Stamboul and Istanbul.
“An early copy,” observed Ghalil, “of a book called the Alexiad,
by the Princess Anna Commena, from the thirteenth century I
mentioned. Will you be so good as to look, Mr. Goghlan?”