"Brad Ferguson - To Tell The Troof" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ferguson Brad)

To Tell The Troof

Brad Ferguson
FATHER MORTIMER McALEER was dozing in his favorite chair, the
plush one in his study nominally reserved for visitors. It was another lazy
(and officially proclaimed) Sabbath afternoon on Henderson. It was a
world that didnтАЩt care at all about priests or Sabbaths, so no one would
bother a tired, middle-aged man in his underwear who wanted to zee a
few zees, his collar off and hanging on a hook ... except that on this
particular so-called Sunday, McAleerтАЩs telephone buzzed, and kept on
buzzing.
The annoying sound killed McAleerтАЩs nap. WhereтАЩs Zweebl gone to?, the
priest asked himself as he roused himself to answer it. He was also more
than a bit puzzled; no one ever called the mission.
McAleer activated the audio pickup; he noticed a light coating of dust,
and frowned. тАЬHello, St. PolycarpтАЩs. This is Father McAleer.тАЭ
тАЬHello,тАЭ came a thin, piping Troof voice. тАЬThis is Klatho, controller at
field. Thought I should tell you. Ship coming in, red-hot emergency.
One-seater, Terran registry; compatriot of yours, maybe. Maybe perhaps
compatriot in matters of Earthie spirituality, also. You might want to
come? Twenty minutes and counting to possible big mess.тАЭ
тАЬIтАЩll be there right away.тАЭ
тАЬGood. Everybody coming to watch. We not handle much space traffic,
particularly space traffic that bounces all over sky and maybe ground, too.
You hurry, now, and beat crowd. Goodbye.тАЭ The Troof cut the circuit.
McAleer powered down his own unit. He knew Klatho slightly, as much
as heтАЩd been allowed to come to know any of the Troof. As for the TroofтАЩs
miserable excuse for a landing field, the Teamstars had designated the
local field as Class D7 тАФ no place to set down a starship, even a small one
and even under the best of circumstances. The pilot must be in very
serious trouble, the priest told himself.
тАЬZweebl!тАЭ McAleer called. тАЬWhere are you?тАЭ
There was the sound of splashing. тАЬUpstairs,тАЭ came another reedy voice.
тАЬTaking bath. What up, Father Mort?тАЭ
 тАЬEmergency,тАЭ McAleer called back. тАЬHurry up. WeтАЩre leaving.тАЭ
тАЬRight there.тАЭ The splashing grew frantic; then McAleer heard the
hurried patter of small feet.
The priest went to his bedroom and grabbed a pair of dark slacks and a
light jacket from his closet. He skipped socks; he didnтАЩt have any clean
ones, anyway. Dressing quickly, he rummaged in a night table next to his
bed and drew out a stole, a prayer book, a vial of oil, and his pyx. The
shipтАЩs pilot could be Orthodox Catholic, and McAleer might have to
administer last rites. McAleer also grabbed his small standard-issue
medikit and strapped it around his pot belly; the priest had a working
knowledge of what to do with most of the stuff in the тАШkit.
тАЬCome on, Zweebl!тАЭ McAleer called.
тАЬComing, Father,тАЭ Zweebl said from upstairs, and the priest heard his
Troof assistant bounding down the stairs тАФ if a four-foot being who
looked like an overripe plum with stubby legs and a fat, snouted blueberry
for a head can be said to bound. тАЬHere am. LetтАЩs go.тАЭ