"Gordon R. Dickson - The Outposter" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dickson Gordon R)

She turned and ran to kneel by the still-un-conscious figure. Left standing, Mark smiled a little grimly.
Her class instinct had not been slow in reasserting itself.

"Take him into my cabin!" she ordered the guards, busy on both sides of her.

"I'm sorry, missтАФ" began the guard who had argued with her about wearing the side arm.

"Did you hear me? I said take him into my cabin! Don't you know who he is? He's Jarl Rakkal!"

Official patience finally gave out.

"I wouldn't care if he was your father him-self!" snapped the guard. "Who he is doesn't mean anything
here. I know what he is, and that's a colonist. He goes back on the other side of the fence and lucky
that's all that'll happen to him. Now, get out of our way. And put that side arm on before you try to enter
the ship!"

The guard turned his back on her and spoke to his mate.

"Lift, Harry."

Together, they picked up the limp body of Jarl Rakkal between them and carried it toward the little gate
in the fence between the two landing stairs. The girl was left on her knees, staring after them. For a
moment Mark hesitated, gazing at her. Then he turned away and mounted the passenger stairs.

He stepped into the entry lounge and paused there at the desk of the duty officer to show his papers and
give his name. The of-ficer accepted them with one hand, mean-while looking past Mark to the scene
down by the foot of the stairs.

"Admiral-General Jas Showell's kid," he said looking back at Mark. "Daddy should explain a few things
to her." He glanced at Mark's papers, then at Mark's face."Destination Ganera Six, Abruzzi Fourteen
Station.First tour as an outposter?"

"That's right. But I was born out there," said Mark.

"Oh," said the duty officer. He stamped Mark's papers with the ship's signet and passed them back to
him. "You'll be in state-room K Fourteen. Oh, by the way, here's a message that just came for you. To
be held for your arrival on board."

"Thanks," said Mark.

He took the small, grey tube of the message cartridge and went past the desk, turning left down the long
corridor gleaming whitely with the plastic surfacing that in this forward part of the ship hid the bare metal
work of its structure. He passed the first circular ladder he came to, but mounted the second. At the first
level up, he paused to sniff at a strange, flat scentlessness of the air. Then he con-tinued up one more
level to a narrower, carpeted corridor along which he found the numbered door of his stateroom.

He touched the blue latch button in the white concave outer surface of the door and stepped through as
the door slid aside. It shut noiselessly behind him, and he looked about the twenty-by-seven-foot cubicle
typical of a first-class accommodation on a ship like this. Two inflated armchairs, a table, and a short
couch had already been extruded from panels in the walls, ready for his waking-hours occu-pancy. Other