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

"You mean you can dig a[pg 055] folder at central files all the way from here?"
"I did."

Here was a real esper for you. I've got a range of about two blocks for good, solid, permanent things
like buildings and street-car tracks, but unfamiliar things get foggy at about a half a block. I can dig lethal
machinery coming in my direction for about a block and a half because I'm a bit sensitive about such
things. I looked at Lieutenant Williamson and said, "With a range like yours, how come there's any crime
in this town at all?"

He shook his head slowly. "Crime doesn't out until it's committed," he said. "You'll remember how fast
we got here after you pulled the trigger. But you're clean, Hammond. Just come to the inquest and tell
all."

"I can go?"

"You can go. But just to keep you out of any more trouble, I'll have one of the jetcopters drop you off at
home. Mind?"

"Nope. But isn't that more than the police are used to doing?"

He eyed me amusedly. "If I were a mental," he said, "I could read your mind and know that you were
forming the notion of calling on Scarmann and asking him what-for. But since I'm only a mind-blank
esper, all I can do is to fall back on experience and guesswork. Do I make myself clear?"

Lieutenant Williamson's guess-work and experience were us good as mental sensitivity, but I didn't think
it wise to admit that I had been considering just exactly how to get to Scarmann. I was quickly and firmly
convoyed home in a jetcopter but once I saw them take off I walked out of the apartment again.

I had more or less tacitly agreed not to go looking for Scarmann, but I had not mentioned taking a dig at
the apartment of the dear departed, Peter Rambaugh.


Rambaugh's place was uptown and the front door was protected by an eight tumbler cylinder job that
would have taxed the best of esper lockpicks. But there was a service entrance in back that was not
locked and I took it. The elevator was a self-service job, and Rambaugh's back door was locked on a
snaplatch that a playful kitten could have opened. I dug the place for a few minutes and found it clean, so
I went in and took a more careful look.

The desk was not particularly interesting. Just papers and letters and unpaid bills. The dresser in the
bedroom was the same, excepting for the bottom drawer. That was filled with a fine collection of
needle-rays and stunguns[pg 056] and one big force blaster that could blow a hole in a brick wall. None
of them had their serial numbers intact.

But behind a reproduction of a Gainsborough painting was a wall safe that must have been built before
Rhine Institute discovered the key to man's latent abilities. Inside of this tin can was a collection of
photographs that must have brought Rambaugh a nice sum in the months when the murder business went
slack. I couldn't quite dig them clear because I didn't know any of the people involved, and I didn't try
too hard because there were some letters and notes that might lead me into the answer to why Rambaugh
was hotburning for me.