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

Martha said, "They're friends of Rambaugh, Steve. And they're a little afraid of that prehistoric cannon
you carry."

The bird in front of Martha gave her a one-two across the face. That was enough for me. I came up out
of my chair, lifting my fist from the floor and putting my back and thigh muscles behind it. It should have
taken his head off, but all he did was grunt, stagger back, dig his heels in, and then come back at me with
his head down. I chopped at the bridge of his nose but missed and almost broke my hand on his hard
skull. Then the other guy came charging in and I flung out a side-chop with my other hand and caught him
on the wrist.

But Rhine training can't do away with the old fact that two big tough men can wipe the floor with one big
tough man. I didn't even take long enough to muss up my furniture.

I had the satisfaction of mashing a nose and cracking my hand against a skull again before the lights went
out. When I came back from Mars, I was sitting on a kitchen chair facing a corner. My wrists and ankles
were taped to the arms and legs of the chair.

I dug around. They had Martha taped to another chair in the opposite corner, and the two gorillas were
standing in the middle of the room, obviously trying to think.

So was I. There was something[pg 059] that smelled about this mess. Peter Rambaugh was a mental,
and he should have been sensitive enough to keep his take low enough so that it wouldn't drive Martha
into thinking up ways and means of getting rid of him. Even so, he shouldn't have been gunning for me,
unless there was a lot more to this than I could dig.

"What gives?" I asked sourly.


There was no answer. The thug with my forty-five took out the clip and removed a couple of slugs.

He went into the kitchen and found my pliers and came back teasing one of the slugs out of its casing.
The other bird lit a cigarette.

The bird with the cartridge poured the powder from the shell into the palm of my hand. I knew what was
coming but I couldn't wiggle my fingers much, let alone turn my hand over to dump out the stuff. The
other guy planted the end of the cigarette between my middle fingers and I had to squeeze hard to keep
the hot end up. My fingers began to ache almost immediately, and I was beginning to imagine the flash of
flame and the fierce wave of pain that would strike when my tired hand lost its pep and let the cigarette
fall into that little mound of powder.

"Stop it," said Martha. "Stop it!"

"What do they want?" I gritted.

"They won't think it," she cried.

The bright red on the end of the cigarette grayed with ash and I began to wonder how long it would be
before a fleck of hot ash would fall. How long it would take for the ash to grow long and top-heavy and
then to fall into the powder. And whether or not the ash would be hot enough to touch it off. I struggled
to keep my hands steady, but they were trembling. I felt the cigarette slip a bit and clamped down tight