"Philip Jose Farmer - Tongues of the Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Farmer Phillip Jose)

large ship could carry the huge generators required to drive a tongue that would damage a base. A tongue, or snake,
as it was sometimes called. A flexible beam of "straightened-out" photons, the ultimate development of the laser.
And when the tongue reached the end of the determined tunnel, then the photons would be "unsprung."
And all the energy crammed into the compressed photons would dissipate.
"Follow me!" said Scone, and he began running.
Broward took a step, halted in amazement, called out, "The suits... other way!"
Then, he resumed running after Scone. Evidently, the colonel was not concerned about the dome cracking
wide open. His only thought was for the bonephone controls.
Broward expected to be cut down under a storm of bullets. But the room was silent except for the groans of
some wounded. And the ever-increasing rumble from deep under.
The survivors of the fight were too intent on the menace probing beneath them to pay attention to the two
runnersтАФ if they saw them.
That is, until Scone bounded through the nearest exit from the dome in a great leap afforded by the Moon's
weak gravity. He almost hit his head on the edge of the doorway.
Then, somebody shot at Broward. But his body, too, was flying through the exit, his legs pulled up, and the
three bullets passed beneath him and blew holes in the rock wall ahead of him.
Broward slammed into the wall and fell back on the floor. Though half-stunned, he managed to roll past the
corner, out of the line of fire, into the hallway. He rose, breathing hard, and checked to make sure he had not broken
his numbed wrists and hands, which had cushioned much of his impact against the wall. And he was thankful that the
tongues needed generators too massive to be compacted into hand weapons. If the Axes had been able to smuggle
tonguers into the dome, they could have wiped out every Soviet on the base.
The rumble became louder. The rock beneath his feet shook. The walls quivered like jelly. Then...
Not the ripping upwards of the floor beneath his feet, the ravening blast opening the rock and lashing out at
him with sear of fire and blow of air to burn him and crush him against the ceiling at the same time.
From somewhere deep and off to one side was an explosion. The rock swelled. Then, subsided.
Silence.
Only his breathing.
For about six seconds while he thought that the Russian ships stationed outside the base must have located
the sunken Axis vessel and destroyed it just before it blew up the base.
From the dome, a hell's concerto of small-gun fire.
Broward ran again, leaping over the twisted and shattered bodies of Russians and Axes. Here the attacking
officers had been met by Soviet guards, and the two groups had destroyed each other.
Far down the corridor, Scone's tall body was hurtling alone, taking the giant steps only a long-time Lunie
could safely handle. He rounded a corner, was gone down a branching corridor.
Broward, following Scone, entered two more branches, and then stopped when he heard the boom of a .45.
Two more booms. Silence. Broward cautiously stuck his head around the corner.
He saw two Russian soldiers on the floor, their weapons close to their lifeless hands. Down the hall, Scone
was running.
Broward did not understand. He could only surmise that the Russians had been so surprised by Scone that
they had fired, or tried to fire, before they recognized the North American uniform. And Scone had shot in
self-defense.
But the corridors were well lit with electroluminescent panels. All three should have seen at once that none
wore the silver of Argentina or the scarlet and brown of the South Africans. So... ?
He did not know. Scone could tell him, but Broward would have trouble catching up with him.
Then, once more, he heard the echoes of a .45 bouncing around the distant corner of the hall.
When Broward rounded the turn as cautiously as he had the previous one, he saw two more dead Russians.
And he saw Scone rifling the pockets of the officer of the two.
"Scone!" he shouted so the man would not shoot him, too, in a frenzy. "It's Broward!"
Coming closer, he said, "What're you doing?"
Scone rose from the officer with a thin plastic cylinder about a decimeter long in one hand. With the other