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

which, with his tumbled curls hanging over his brow in the manner of an ancient
Irish glib, gave him a dashing, devil-may-care expression. At least Miss Beverly
deWinder thought so, for she was smoothing those tumbled curls and smiling
maternally.
Leaving the commander's ship--which was stationed off Rigel--for a moment, we
take a brief survey of his career. He was thirty years old, and his grandfather,
the first of his name, was also in the Navy. His father was not as bright as his
grandfather, but appointments were easily got from the sentimental All Earth
Exec, which wished to breed a race of fighting men, true, loyal and hard as
nails. Alexander Hertford II just got through Prep Wing and Training Wing by the
skin of his teeth, lived on a lineship and died at his post quelling an uprising
among the outer planets of Alpha Centauri.
The third of the name was definitely dull. However, by the virtue of the
anonymous genius who invented the Autocram and peddled them to students, he got
through with what could easily be mistaken for flying colors, won his
commission, saw service and was promoted to a Wing Command.
Life in Prep Wing and Training Wing was
Spartan in the extreme. Tradition was extensively cultivated; for example it was
legitimate to steal anything edible and criminal to steal anything drinkable.
Another of the blunders of the career-moulding branch of the Navy was the policy
of rigidly excluding females from the lives of the boys and men for the duration
of the course. Thus it was no more than natural that after graduating they got
their romance in heavy doses.
The end-product of this was sprawling off Rigel when a discreet tapping sounded
on the door of the Commander's lounge.
"I'll see, sweetie," said Miss deWinder, who was a good-hearted girl. She took
the slip of paper that poked through the slot and carried it to Alexander
Hertford III.
He opened it and read.
"Damn," said Alexander Hertford III.
"Wassa matta, sweetie pie? Did bad ol' Admiral sen' sweetie pie away f'om li'l
Bevvie-wevvie?"
Sweetie pie opened a closet whose inner face was a mirror and adjusted his
collar and hair. As he cocked his cap at the right fraction of an angle he said:
"Nothing to worry about. You just sit tight. I may not be back for a few
days--we're seeing action again." He re-read the slip of paper.
"Damn," he marveled again. "When we used to talk about it around the mess-tables
I never thought it'd come in my time. But here it is. Beverly, sweet, the Navy's
taking over. Your lover-boy isn't a flying policeman anymore." He buckled on his
belt and opened the lap of the handgun holster. There was a look of strain on
his dumb, handsome face. "From now on," he said, "your loverboy is ruler, and no
questions asked, over Cosmic Sector Twenty-Three, with full power of life and
death."
Miss deWinder echoed after him, fascinated: "And no questions asked . . ."
THE DECODE CLERK at Intelligence Wing read off the message he had just received
and set into English. Working like an automaton he was grasping its meaning for
the first time, though it had been a full quarter-hour's labor to untangle the
quadruply alternating cipher. He read; he understood at last; he whistled a
long, slow whistle of amazement.
In agitated tones he snapped at an office girl: "This is for Barty and nobody