"Charles L. Harness-Stalemate in Space" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harness Charles L)

messenger ship can leave The Defender. Be on it."
"No. I shall die here."
His fine tired eyes had studied her face in enigmatic appraisal. "Then die usefully. The mentors are
trying to develop a force what will destroy both globes in the moment of our inevitable defeat. If they are
successful, you will have the task of pressing the final button of the battle."
"There's an off-chance you may survive," countered a mentor. "We're also working on a means for
your escape-- not only because you are Gordon's daughter, but because this great proton storm will
prevent radio contact with Terra for years, and we want someone to escape with our secret if and when
our experiments prove successful."
"But you must expect to die," her father had warned with gentle finality.
She clenched her fingernails vehemently into her palms and wrenched herself back to the present.
That time had come.
With some effort she worked herself out of the crumpled bed and lay on the floor of her little cubicle,
panting and holding her chest with both hands. The metal floor was very cold. Evidently the enemy
torpedo fissionables had finally broken through to the center portions of the ship, letting in the icy breath
of space. Small matter. Not by freezing would she die.
She reached out her hand, felt for the all-important key, and gasped in dismay. The mahogany box
containing the key had burst its metal bonds and was lying on its side. The explosion that had crushed her
cubicle had been terrific.
With a gurgle of horror she snapped on her wrist luminar and examined the interior of the box.
It was a shattered ruin.
***


Once the fact was clear, she composed herself and lay there, breathing hard and thinking. She had no
means to construct another key. At best, finding the rare tools and parts would take months, and during
the interval the invaders would be cutting loose from the dead hulk that clutched their conquering battle
globe in a metallic rigor mortis.
She gave herself six weeks to accomplish this stalemate.
Within that time she must know whether the prime movers were still intact, and whether she could
safely enter the pile room herself, set the movers in motion, and draw the moderator columns. If it were
unsafe, she must secure the unwitting assistance of her Scythian enemies.
Still prone, she found the first-aid kit and taped her chest expertly. The cold was beginning to make
itself felt, so she flicked on the chaudiere she wore as an undergarment to her Scythian woman's uniform.
Then she crawled on her elbows and stomach to the tiny door, spun the sealing gear, and was soon
outside. Ignoring the pain and pulling on the side of the imitation rock that contained her cell, she got
slowly to her feet. The air was thin indeed, and frigid. She turned the valve of her portable oxygen bottle
almost subconsciously, while exploring the surrounding blackened forest as far as she could see. Mentally
she was alert for roving alien minds. She had left her weapons inside the cubicle, except for the three
things in the little leather bag dangling from her waist, for she knew that her greatest weapon in the
struggle to come would be her apparent harmlessness.
Four hundred yards behind her she detected the mind of a low-born Scythe, of the Tharn sun group.
Very quickly she established it as that of a tired, brutish corporal, taking a mop-up squad through the
black stumps and forlorn branches of the small forest that for years had supplied oxygen to the defenders
of this sector.
The corporal could not see her green Scythian uniform clearly, and evidently took her for a Terran
woman. In his mind was the question: Should he shoot immediately, or should he capture her? It had
been two months since he had seen a woman. But then, his orders were to shoot. Yes, he would shoot.
 Evelyn turned in profile to the beam-gun and stretched luxuriously, hoping that her grimace of pain
could not be detected. With satisfaction, she sensed a sudden change of determination in the mind of the