"Bill, the galactic hero" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

It was indeed a fabulous sight. Leading the parade was a one-robot band,
twelve feet high and splendid in its great black busby that concealed the
hi-fi speakers. The golden pillars of its legs stamped forward as its thirty
articulated arms sawed, plucked, and fingered at a dazzling variety of
instruments. Martial music poured out in wave after inspiring wave, and even
Bill's thick peasant feet stirred in their clodhoppers as the shining boots of
the squad of soldiers crashed along the road in perfect unison. Medals jingled
on the manly swell of their scarlet-clad chests, and there could certainly be
no nobler sight in all the world. To their rear marched the sergeant, gorgeous
in his braid and brass, thickly clustered medals and ribbons, sword and gun,
girdled gut and steely eye 'which sought out Bill where he stood gawking over
the fence. The grizzled head nodded in his direction, the steel-trap mouth bent
into a friendly smile and there' was a conspiratorial wink. Then the little
legion was past, and hurrying behind in their wake came a huddle of
dust-covered ancillary robots, hopping and crawling or rippling along on
treads. As soon as these had gone by Bill climbed clumsily over the split-rail
fence and ran after them. There were no more than two interesting events every
four years here, and he was not going to miss what promised to be a third.
A crowd had already gathered in the market square when Bill hurried up, and
they were listening to an enthusiastic band concert. The robot hurled itself
into the glorious measures of "Star Troopers to the Skies Avaunt," thrashed its
way through "Rockets Rumble," and almost demolished itself in the tumultuous
rhythm of "Sappers at the Tithead Digging." It pursued this last tune so
strenuously that one of its legs flew off, rising high into the air, but was
caught dexterously before it could hit the ground, and the music ended with the
robot balancing on its remaining leg, beating time with the detached limb. It
also, after an ear-fracturing peal on the basses, used the leg to point across
the square to where a tri-di screen and refreshment booth had been set up. The
troopers had vanished into the tavern, and the recruiting sergeant stood alone
among his robots, beaming a welcoming smile.
"Now hear this! Free drinks for all, courtesy of the Emperor, and some lively
scenes of jolly adventure in distant climes to amuse you while you sip," he
called in an immense and leathery voice.
Most of the people drifted over, Bill in their midst, though a few
embittered and elderly draft-dodgers slunk away between the houses. Cooling
drinks were shared out by a robot with a spigot for a navel and an
inexhaustible supply of plastic glasses in one hip. Bill sipped his happily
while he followed the enthralling adventures of the space troopers in full
color, with sound effects and stimulating subsonics. There was battle and death
and glory, though it was only the Chingers who died: troopers only suffered
neat little wounds in their extremities that could be covered easily by small
bandages. And while Bill was enjoying this, Recruiting Sergeant Grue was
enjoying him, his little piggy eyes ruddy with greed as they fastened onto the
back of Bill's neck.
This is the one! he chortled to himself while, unknowingly, his yellowed
tongue licked at his lips. He could already feel the weight of the bonus money
in his pocket. The rest of the audience. were the usual mixed bag of overage
men, fat women, beardless youths, and other unenlistables. All except this
broad-shouldered, square-chinned, curly-haired chunk of electronic-cannon
fodder. With a precise hand on the controls the sergeant lowered the background