"Foster, Alan Dean - Star Wars - Splinter Of The Mind's Eye" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

"That's true," Luke admitted, feeling no remorse at damning all miners. They hadn't been particularly hospitable to him since he'd landed in their company. "We're from another town," he added for good measure.
The trooper's brief venture into camaraderie vanished and he replied coldly, "That may or may not be. You chronic brawlers lie a lot. Just because the Empire tolerates a limited amount of disorder here as a safety valve for you people is no reason to abuse the privilege. You make it tough on all your fellows." He pointed ahead, to the trooper who was hefting the satchel of confiscated weapons.
"When killing devices are involved, it becomes more than a question of worker discipline. Charges will be brought. Too bad for you. I hope you get what you deserve."
"Thanks," said Luke drily.
One of the miners grumbled, "Not our fault. Saberman and the woman led us on."
"Shut up, you," ordered the sergeant. "You'll have your own chance to tell your side of it to Captain-Supervisor Grammel."
That caused both Luke and Leia to start violently. Grammel was the man Halla had warned them about.
"Perhaps he'll be generous," the sergeant went on philosophically. "Good workers are difficult to get here. He may leave you most of your fingers."
"I wish we'd asked Halla more about this Grammel," Luke murmured.
"Yes, Halla." The Princess sounded discouraged. "She didn't break her back trying to save us, did she?"
"What could she do," Luke countered, "against Imperials?"
"You're right, I guess. But I would've thought she'd try something." Leia shrugged. "I suppose I can't blame her for saving herself."
"At least Threepio and Artoo got away," Luke added softly.
"Hey, any more chatter back there and I'll take off some digits myself," the sergeant warned.
"How would you like to bury yourself under four feet of mud for about an hour?" the Princess snapped.
"I wouldn't," admitted the sergeant calmly. "How would you like your pretty tongue burnt out with a low-power blaster?"
Leia subsided. They were in enough trouble. She'd gain nothing by provoking them more. She concentrated her stare on the middle of the sergeant's back, trying to drive him insane. The sergeant showed no hint of being affected. Probably solid bone under the helmet, she mused.
They turned a last corner and entered a large chamber. After the spartan gray stone inside and out, the sybaritic furnishings here came as a shock. Real and artificial fur was used lavishly. Many of the creature comforts Luke would have associated with a far more developed world than Mimban were present. They were not flaunted, however, which indicated that the inhabitant of this chamber regarded them as his natural accoutrements.
Across the chamber a single man sat behind an un-imposing, functional desk. "Bring them over, sergeant." His bored voice was broken and gravelly. Luke thought he must have suffered some damage to his vocal cords.
At a gesture from the sergeant, the seven prisoners-including one with a limp and a crudely bandaged leg-were herded across the room to stand close by the desk.
The most impressive thing about Grammel, Luke thought, was the reaction to him by the miners. All of their bluster and swagger had disappeared. They stood staring at the floor, the walls, each other-anywhere but at the man behind the desk. Feet shuffled uneasily.
Without seeming to stare, Luke tried to see the personage who inspired such respectful subservience from hardened men like the five miners. Grammel had his head buried in his hands as he studied some paper. Finally he rubbed his eyes, folded his hands and leaned his elbows on the desk as he surveyed them.
Grammel added no color to his surroundings. His face was egg-shell pale, and the image of the Imperial officer was tarnished further when he stood to reveal a modest paunch curving gently from beneath his sternum like a frozen waterfall of suet, to crash and tumble somewhere below the waistline in a jumble of uniform.
The silver and gray uniform itself was spotless and neat, however, as if in an attempt to camouflage the belly beneath. Above the tight, high collar the neck jumped out to a square jaw bordered by a drooping mustache. The line of that facial hair matched well the dour expression the Captain-Supervisor wore-habitually, Luke guessed. Tiny, penetrating eyes peered out from beneath brows like a granite ridge, overtopped by uneasy black and gray hair.
This was a face that rarely laughed, Luke decided, and then for the wrong reasons.
Grammel began examining each of the uneasy group in turn. Luke borrowed a hint from the miners and tried to concentrate solely on a stain on the furred floor.
"So these are the disturbers, who break the peace to fight with killing weapons," he observed disapprovingly. Once more that voice grated on Luke's ears, like a piece of rusty machinery long overdue for lubrication. Full of grimy squeaks and groans, it suited Grammel perfectly.
Stepping forward smartly, the sergeant reported, "Yes, Captain-Supervisor. Permission to take the two wounded to the infirmary."
"Granted," said Grammel. He did not quite smile, but his permanent frown faded enough for his lips to straighten slightly. "For a time, they will be better off than those who remain here."
Under guard, the handless miner and the one with the limp were taken from the room. Grammel resumed his examination of the remaining people. When he reached Luke and the Princess, his mouth twitched as if someone had jabbed him with a pin.
"You two I don't recognize. Who are you?" He came around from behind the desk, stood nose to nose with Luke. "You, boy! What are you?"
"Just a contract miner, Captain-Supervisor," Luke stammered, trying to sound appropriately terrified. It wasn't a difficult task. Nor did he mind a little verbal groveling if his life hung in the balance.
Grammel moved to stare down at the Princess. Now he smiled gingerly, as if the effort hurt him. "And you, my dear? You're a miner too, I suppose."
"No." Leia didn't look at him. She nodded briefly toward Luke. "I'm his... servant."
"That's right," Luke said quickly. "She's only my-"
"I can hear, boy," Grammel murmured. He stared back at her, ran a finger down one cheek. "Pretty woman..." She twitched out of his grip. "Spirited, too." He looked at Luke. "I congratulate you on your taste, boy."
"Thank you, sir." Leia glared at him, but what else could he have said?
"Your manners are probably matched only by your incompetence," the Princess told him.
Grammel merely nodded with satisfaction. "Manners," he repeated. "Incompetence. Odd way for a servant to speak." He barked at the sergeant, standing stiffly at attention nearby: "What identification did you find on these two?"
"Identification, Captain-Supervisor? We assumed that it was standard, sir."
"You haven't checked their identification, Sergeant?" Grammel inquired slowly. Succeeding only in giving the impression of a man sweating beneath his armor, the officer explained lamely, "No, sir. We just assumed."
"Never assume, Sergeant. The universe is full of dead people who lived by assumption." He turned politely to Luke and Leia. "Your identification now, please?"
Luke made a pretense of searching his clothing, tried to look stunned when the nonexistent identification didn't materialize. The Princess fought to imitate him.
"We must have lost it during the fight," he declared, and then hurriedly tried to change the subject. "These five-three now-attacked us without provocation and-"
"It's a lie!" one of the miners objected strenuously. He looked to Grammel for sympathy, found none.
"You," Grammel told the man very quietly, "shut up." The man complied with alacrity.
A trooper entered the chamber, called out ingratiatingly, "Captain-Supervisor?"
Grammel appeared irritated at the interruption. "Yes, what is it?"
The trooper approached the desk, whispered something in Grammel's ear. Grammel looked surprised. "Yes, I'll see him." He walked toward the door.
A small cloaked figure entered and engaged Grammel in conversation. Luke couldn't make out more than an occasional word. Leaning over, he whispered to the Princess, "I don't like this, Leia."