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

Repaired. If he could find anybody or anyplace to repair it. The madness of the
Martian loneliness touched him again, briefly. What had happened to the world,
anyhow? Cities destroyed, vegetation running wild over miles of deserted
territory--
His ears, subconsciously sensitive for the slightest human sound, and attuned
more delicately by Mars' thin air which made a boom into a squeak, caught a
subdued whisper behind him.
He's unarmed, looks like," it said, and with an exclamation of delight he spun
around on his heel.
HE SAW NOTHING but a miniature open space, domed by branches, and the forest
itself. "Where are you?" he called eagerly, his voice unnaturally loud in his
ears.
For a long moment there was silence. Then a gruff voice said, "No funny stuff,
Turny. You're surrounded."
"I've no weapons," he replied, puzzled. "I'm not a criminal. Come out where I
can see you. I want to get some information."
Again the silence, and then finally the undergrowth rustled and two men stepped
cautiously into view. They were dressed in tattered, faded clothing of no
identifiable nature; they had heavy beards and carried crude, flint-tipped
spears. One of them had a belt, into which was thrust a rusty hatchet; the other
was beltless, and his clothing hung on him like sacking.
"What is this, anyhow, a masquerade?" said Marshall. "What's happened to
everybody? I couldn't even find New York."
"He don't talk like a turny," said the beltless man doubtfully.
"Shut up," growled the other. "They're full o' tricks. Listen, mister, you
picked a bad spot to have a forced landing in. We have special entertainments
here regular for guys like you." He whistled shrilly and the open space suddenly
held some ten more men, similarly dressed and ominously silent, spears ready and
narrow eyes watching Marshall with strange, vigilant hatred.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he snapped. "My name's Gregory
Marshall, and I've just come back from ten years on Mars. What the hell has
happened? What's a turny? Why is everybody gone?"
The man with the belt, who seemed by that mark of distinction to be leader of
the band, laughed shortly. "That's one lousy story. You oughta be able to do
better'n that. We know your kind. Every decent man died in the fight. Just rats
like us, who ran when the others stayed, are left. But we're better for all that
than you guys that ran in the other direction."
An angry murmur of affirmation ran around the ragged group.
"We got no use for bloodhounds, see," the belted man went on in a low, deadly
voice. "We don't like guys that hunt us so they can wear good clothes and own
planes like them and live in the cities--"
"Hey, boss," another voice cut in from directly behind Marshall. One of the men
had circled cautiously around and was examining the suspended Icarus. "This
ain't no invader's ship. Look here. It's made o' wood."
The belted man snorted.
"No kidding, boss. The shiny stuff's just paint. Look at this burnt spot. And
here--this tube thing stickin' out the back--it's got 'Bethlehem Steel Co.'
stamped on it."
The leader frowned and strode past Marshall to look at the space-flyer himself.
"It's a trick," he said suspiciously. "What about that there name?" He pointed