"Lawrence Watt-Evans - War Surplus 01 - The Cyborg And The Sorcerers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

thick with rugs, furs, and pillows. A chest of drawers topped with five mirrors at different angles was
against one wall; an upholstered divan was opposite it. Two doors in the far wall apparently led into other
rooms in the suite. In the center, of course, there was the bed, a great canopied thing, its white velvet
curtains drawn.

He saw no sign of occupants. There was a key in the door he had just closed, which he turned, locking it;
that would delay anyone's attempting to come in after him. Thus protected, he relaxed slightly. A
conditioned reflex thrust him forward, though, and he found himself checking the other two doors. One
led into a magnificent marble-and-fur bathroom, with a huge sunken tub and other fixtures that made it
plain this culture had indoor plumbing. He began to wonder whether they had in fact lost anything beside
electricity and space flight; it was obviously not the stone-age society he had first thought it to be. There
was no other entrance to the bathroom, so that was safe. He turned to the other door, but his hand never
reached the latch; he was distracted by a head peering out through the bed-curtains at him.



Chapter Six

IT WAS A YOUNG FEMALE HEAD, WITH LONG BLOND HAIR, big blue eyes, a long nose, and
a shocked expression; an accompanying hand held a small oil lamp.

"Who are you? What are you doing in here?" she demanded.

Forgetting for the moment about the other door, Slant dove for her. To do so was not a conscious
decision; his training had taken over again, and he had been trained to use physical restraint in this sort of
situation. In an instant he had knocked her back on the bed, one hand over her mouth, the other pinning
one of her arms, while his body pinned the other and his legs locked around hers. Miraculously, the lamp
neither spilled nor went out His reasonably neat programmed maneuver was complicated by the bed
curtains, which had caught on both ends of the submachine gun he still wore strapped to his shoulders;
one hanging was ripped half off its rings and remained wrapped around the gunstock, pinched between
the stock and strap. Another had been flung forward, and wound up tangled around one of his legs.

The curtains were not a serious problem, but they were an inconvenience; when Slant was capable of
conscious action again, he whispered in the girl's ear, "One sound, one move, and you're dead; do you
understand?"

She nodded; he could tell from her eyes that she was on the verge of panic but thought she would
probably keep quiet He loosened his hold and untangled the hangings, keeping the girl partially pinned.
That done, he set the lamp on a convenient nightstand, where it lit the entire room dimly. She remained
silent, watching, wide-eyed and unmoving.

The submachine gun, even untangled, remained an inconvenience; he unstrapped it and set it aside, well
out of his captive's reach. The snark remained on his belt, easily accessible; he was scarcely leaving
himself unarmed.

That taken care of, he looked her over, assessing the situation. She wore a thin cotton robe, doubtlessly
the local equivalent of a nightgown. It was black, which struck him as a very odd color for a young
woman to wear to bed alone; had it been lace or satin he might not have thought so, but it was
unadorned and made of cheap fabric. He was reminded of the black robes worn by the councillors, and
considered where he was.