"SD Gottesman - Firepower" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gotlieb Phyllis)

Centauri.
Marines swarmed through the streets in the traditional manner of rightist
revolutionaries. Should a face appear that hinted of Rigelian blood, or should a
half-breed with the abnormally long hands and black teeth of a Betelgeusian pass
the marines, there would be bloodshed and no questions asked. After a few hours
of the reign of terror, the extraterrestrials crept into cellars and stayed
there for the duration.
The All Earth Executive Committee was imprisoned pending trial; trial for what
was never made clear. Communications sending sets were declared provisionally
illegal; anyone caught with one in working commission would suffer death. The
only etheric voice that could be legally heard was the light, mocking one of
Voss, personal secretary to Admiral Fitzjames, and that only from the powerful
sender aboard the Admiral's ship Stupendous, floating grimly above the Bronx.
The receiving code set in the communications room of the little suite of offices
once occupied by the Intelligence Wing was clicking like a mad thing, and never
an answer came, for the Wing had moved out lock, stock and barrel. The message
that kept repeating (Admiral Fitzjames had said: "Keep trying" two days ago)
was: "Why don't you answer, Intelligence Wing? Bartok report immediately aboard
Stupendous to show cause why you should not be removed from office and the Wing
disbanded. Why don't you answer, Intelligence Wing? Bartok report--" et cetera.
A squad of marines would shortly break into the office and find nothing of
interest to anybody.
But there were two people who seemed to be partly Rigelian from the greenish
patches on their faces and their peculiar scalp-lines, shaped like tipsy S's.
They were cowering in a cellar as many other Rigelianswere doing during those
lunatic days when the Navy had first taken over, but there was something
purposeful and grim about their behavior that didn't fit the disguises.
Babe MacNeice was tinkering despondently with the central control panel of the
conference-type communications system exclusive to the Intelligence Wing. The
panel was a little thing, like a book in size and shape, but its insides were so
fearfully complicated that nothing short of an installations engineer could make
anything of them. And the panel was definitely shot to hell.
She said as much, and burst into a flood of tears. Bartok, the other Rigelian,
snarled softly and handed over a mussy handkerchief. "Take it easy," he snapped,
his own nerves raw and quick with strain. "We're sitting pretty compared with
the rest of the office staff."
The brave smile that always ended the weeping spells flashed out as she returned
the handkerchief. "What now?" she demanded tremulously. "Now that we can't keep
in touch with the rest of the men?"
"Now," he said slowly, "I don't know. But--" He snatched at her wrist and
dragged her behind a pillar as the door of their cellar swung open and a streak
of light shot through the gloom. The profile of a marine's cap showed against
the light. Bartok raised his handgun, resting the long barrel across his left
forearm, pioneer-sharpshooter style.
The door opened fully. The marine called: "Come on out or I'll shoot!" That was
on general principles. It was surprising how many fell for the centuries-old
dodge. Then when the hider came out the marines would have a little innocent fun
with their handguns and depart for other cellars.
Babe sneezed. The marine started and Bartok shot him through the head. "Come
on," he snapped in an undertone as he tore off the Rigelian wig. "Through the