Отравленный пояс
Chapter I. The Blurring Of Lines
Itwasatelegraph-boywithawirewhichhadbeenforwardedfrommylodgingsatStreatham.Themessagewasfromtheverymanwehadbeendiscussing,andranthus:—
Malone,17,HillStreet,Streatham.—Bringoxygen.—Challenger.
"Bringoxygen!"TheProfessor,asIrememberedhim,hadanelephantinesenseofhumourcapableofthemostclumsyandunwieldlygambollings.Wasthisoneofthosejokeswhichusedtoreducehimtouproariouslaughter,whenhiseyeswoulddisappearandhewasallgapingmouthandwaggingbeard,supremelyindifferenttothegravityofallaroundhim?Iturnedthewordsover,butcouldmakenothingevenremotelyjocoseoutofthem.Thensurelyitwasaconciseorder—thoughaverystrangeone.HewasthelastmanintheworldwhosedeliberatecommandIshouldcaretodisobey.Possiblysomechemicalexperimentwasafoot;possibly——Well,itwasnobusinessofminetospeculateuponwhyhewantedit.Imustgetit.TherewasnearlyanhourbeforeIshouldcatchthetrainatVictoria.Itookataxi,andhavingascertainedtheaddressfromthetelephonebook,ImadefortheOxygenTubeSupplyCompanyinOxfordStreet.
AsIalightedonthepavementatmydestination,twoyouthsemergedfromthedooroftheestablishmentcarryinganironcylinder,which,withsometrouble,theyhoistedintoawaitingmotor-car.Anelderlymanwasattheirheelsscoldinganddirectinginacreaky,sardonicvoice.Heturnedtowardsme.Therewasnomistakingthoseausterefeaturesandthatgoateebeard.Itwasmyoldcross-grainedcompanion,ProfessorSummerlee.
"What!"hecried.
