"George O. Smith - Stop Look and Dig" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith George O)

Stop Look and Dig
BY GEORGE O. SMITH

ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH

The enlightened days of mental telepathy and ESP should have made the world a better place, But the
minute the Rhine Institute opened up, all the crooks decided it was time to go collegiate!
Someone behind me in the dark was toting a needle-ray. The impression came through so strong that I
could almost read the filed-off serial number of the thing, but the guy himself I couldn't dig at all. I
stopped to look back but the only sign of life I could see was the fast flick of taxicab lights as they
crossed an intersection about a half mile back. I stepped into a doorway so that I could think and stay
out of the line of fire at the same time.

The impression of the needle-ray did not get any stronger, and that tipped me off. The bird was following
me. He was no peace-loving citizen because honest men do not cart weapons with the serial numbers
filed off. Therefore the character tailing me was a hot papa with a burner charge labelled "Steve
Hammond" in his needler.

I concentrated, but the only impression I could get would have specified ninety-eight men[pg 052] out of
a hundred anywhere. He was shorter than my six-feet-two and lighter than my one-ninety. I could guess
that he was better looking. I'd had my features arranged by a blocked drop kick the year before the
National Football League ruled the Rhine Institute out because of our use of mentals and perceptives. I
gave up trying--I wanted details and not an overall picture of a hotbird carrying a burner.

I wondered if I could make a run for it.

I let my sense of perception dig the street ahead, casing every bump and irregularity. I passed places
where I could zig out to take cover in front of telephone poles, and other places where I could zag in to
take cover beyond front steps and the like. I let my perception run up the block and by the time I got to
the end of my range, I knew that block just as well as if I'd made a practise run in the daytime.

At this point I got a shock. The hot papa was coming up the sidewalk hell bent for destruction. He was a
mental sensitive, and he had been following my thoughts while my sense of perception made its trial run
up the street. He was running like the devil to catch up with my mind and burn it down per schedule. It
must have come as quite a shock to him when he realized that while the mind he was reading was running
like hell up the street, the hard old body was standing in the doorway waiting for him.

I dove out of my hiding place as he came close. I wanted to tackle him hard and ask some pointed
questions. He saw me as I saw him skidding to an unbalanced stop, and there was the dull glint of metal
in his right hand. His needle-ray came swinging up and I went for my armpit. I found time to curse my
own stupidity for not having hardware in my own fist at the moment. But then I had my rod in my fist. I
felt the hot scorch of the needle going off just over my shoulder, and then came the godawful racket of
my ancient forty-five. The big slug caught him high in the belly and tossed him back. It folded him over
and dropped him in the gutter while the echoes of my cannon were still racketing back and forth up and
down the quiet street.


I had just enough time to dig his wallet, pockets, and billfold before the whole neighborhood was up and