"Blish, James - Pheonix Planet" - читать интересную книгу автора (Blish James)

ammunition hunting. We've got a pile of nondescript stuff, too, some of which
might fit your regular rifle. If it's a U. S. rifle, no good."
"It isn't," said Barret. "I don't know what it is, but the auto-rifle shells
won't fit it."
"Any grenades?" said Marshall.
"Don't be funny," growled the aide.
"What else have you, Leland?"
"The usual spears and odd implements. Also an electro-magnetic machine gun, one
that we salvaged from the tank; three belts of shells for it; and, grand
anticlimax, no batteries to run it."
"Good batteries in the Icarus. That's good. What else?"
"I've got an automatic with one unspoiled clip of shells, like Barret's. Also
another we filled partly from the scrap heap, and two that are empty, and
probably rusted to the point of uselessness. Fetishes in the house of the
chief." He grimaced.
"It sounds funny," said Marshall slowly, "but I think we have the nucleus of a
very useful arsenal there. Now, one question; do the invaders fly the big ships
any more?"
"Never for scouting. For communication with the other cities, yes, since they
haven't built any roads, but the turnies use ordinary planes. We never did
develop the rocket to where it could be used for anything but a suicide torpedo,
and the big ships don't use rockets at all. We don't know what makes them fly.
But they never bother us. Just the planes."
"That's all I want to know," said Marshall, and the hate-lightnings were hot in
his eyes.
HE STOOD at the western edge of the forest, the cool morning breeze playing
capriciously around him, rustling the leaves over him and the shining Icarus.
The recently arisen sun sent molten gold across the tops of the trees and
transformed the distant city into a thing of impossible splendor.
In the tanks of the ship, resting hidden at the far end of a newly-made aisle
reaching back from the forest's edge, were twenty-three gallons of gasoline,
with two and one-half gallons of Marshall's fuel added. His compressor had been
active for a week, charging the secondary tanks with liquid air--the closest he
could come to liquid oxygen, since he had no equipment for fractional
distillation. He remembered how long that compressor had had to strain to
liquify enough of the thin Martian atmosphere, and how many times he'd had to
charge the batteries to keep it going . . .
But the Icarus was no longer a space-vessel. The protective plastic had been
knocked away in an irregular small patch just below the center of the forward
port, and a hole burned through the wood with a white-hot metal bar (there were
no drills available, and the composition could not be drilled by ordinary
methods, anyhow). Protruding through the opening was the muzzle of Leland's
auto-rifle, fully loaded, and on the control board two more clips collected from
the scrap heaps of nearby communities lay ready. When asked why he chose the
auto-rifle instead of the far more dangerous electro, he merely said "Noisier,"
and let his associates puzzle it out. Barret's women had repaired and repacked
the ship's parachute.
Behind Marshall, hidden watchfully in the undergrowth, were the twenty-one
individuals of Barret's tribe; Barret himself was in a tree-top directly above.
"See anything?" Marshall called guardedly.