"Mack Reynolds - Ability Quotient" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reynolds Mack)

Bert Alshuler was intrigued. He sat down on the mini-apartment's sole
comfort chair and eyed the newcomer. "Why don't you ask him?"

Over the other's face came a look of determination. He said, "I insist
that you divulge to me the reason for your interview this morning with
Leonard Katz."

Bert said mildly, "Fine. Who are you?"

"That I am not ready to tell you."

"Great. Then why don't you get lost, in view of the fact that I'm about to
hang one on your for breaking into my apartment and going through my
private possessions?"

The stubborn determination intensified. The stranger put his hand
inside his jacket and came forth with a pistol. He pointed it at Bert
Alshuler. "Tell me immediately what it was that Professor Katz wanted
with you this morning."

Bert Alshuler looked at the other for a long considering moment. He
ran the palm of his right hand over his mouth in a gesture of disgust and
leaned forward slightly in the chair.

"You want to know something?" he said. "I'm an old combat man. I've
been hit more times than I can offhand remember, but never with a gun of
that small a caliber. It's a twenty-two with a two-inch barrel, a very
inaccurate gun. You want to know something else? On top of everything
else, I'll bet you're a lousy shot. And I'll bet that I can get out of this chair
and rush you before you can finish me with that popgun." He waited
another long moment before adding, "Want to try? If you do, start
shooting, friend."

The other bug-eyed him.
 Bert tensed up and repeated, "Start shooting, friend."

"Why… why…" The other darted a surprised look down at the gun, as
though the small weapon had betrayed him.

Bert held his peace, only looking coldly at the other. There were
butterflies in his stomach, a whole bevy of them, but his eyes were level
and he knew that the interloper was more frightened than he was. He had
been shot at before—all too, many a time—and he doubted that this one
had ever heard the sound of a gun, outside a shooting gallery, or hunting
rabbits, or whatever.

The stranger, his face working, came to his feet, the gun still at the
ready. He began edging for the door. Bert Alshuler stayed where he was.
There was no point in pushing his luck.