"Harrison, Harry - Bill On The Planet Of Robot Slaves - uc" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

"How about you inviting me to the Officer's
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Club for a conference, sir?" Bill insinuated sanguinely.
"Why?" Praktis asked suspiciously.
"Drink," was the instant reply.
They were well into their second bottle of Olde Paint Dissolver before the messenger found them.
"Admiral wants you both in his office instantly if not sooner."
"Bowb off!" Dr. Praktis sneered. The messenger drew his gun.
"I was ordered to shoot you both if you gave me a hard time."
The double-time running had sobered them a bit and they stood panting and swaying and holding each other up in front of Lubyanka's desk. He was growling and muttering as he shuffled through the reports before him. He glanced up and shuddered.
"Sit down before you fall down," he ordered, then waved a readout at them.
"SNABU," he grated through gritted teeth. "Situation normal-all bowbed up. Our satellite stations have managed to get an electronic tracer on the track of the spacer that dumped those dragons on us. It headed off in the direction of Alpha Canis Major, a sector which has, up until now, been neutral. We need to know what is going onand where this planet Usa is."
"Well you are the electronic genius, not me." Praktis sniffed. "There is no work for a tired old sawbones here."
"Oh yes there is. I'm putting you in charge of the pursuit ship."
"Why me?"
"Because you are about the only officer I have left-and rank does have its responsibilities. And
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this nerd goes with you since we are short of combat-experienced troopers as well. I'll scratch up a crew for youbut I can't promise very much."
"Oh thanks a bunch! Any other bad news?"
"Yes. The attack knocked out every spacer we had. Except for the garbage tug."
"I used to work in garbage disposal," Bill said brightly.
"Then you will feel right at home. Pack your bags and be back here by 0315 at the latest. That's when I send the assassination squad after you. We'll have the tracking equipment loaded aboard by that time."
"Any way we can drop out of this?" Praktis asked gloomily as they picked their way through the rubble-filled base.
"Not a one. I did the research the first day we got here. Easy enough to get off the base-but no place to go after that. Local plantlife inedible. Ocean all around. No place to hide."
"Whee. Then come with me and carry my bags."
"You won't need me, sir," Bill said, pointing behind the doctor's back. "Those three medics should be able to help you."
Praktis turned to look and saw nothing. Turned back and saw the same thing. He howled with anger but Bill was well out of sight.
Out of sight and filled with a sense of dark despair as he shuffled towards the barracks. All right, the troopers were never a laugh a second, and this planet was for the pits, but at least he could stay alive here. But this garbage scow to the stars gig with the mad doctor in charge had a very bad smell to it. He groped about in the interstices of his brain cells but
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could not find a feasible plan of escape. Blow off the other foot? No, he would end up with two chicken feet-and tail feathers-if he knew Praktis. It looked like it was time for a trip.
Covering the combination lock on his footlocker with his free hand he punched in the number. Then pushed his thumb against the fingerprint detector plate before using his key. You could never be too secure, not in the troopers. He stirred the contents of the tray with his forgers and wondered what he should take with him on ship. He doubted if he would need the gross of condoms. The knuckle-duster knife with poison darts might come in handy. Something to read? He gloomily flipped through the pages of Combat Comia: explosions sounded weakly from its pages, the cries of tiny voices. There was the very good chance, as always, that he would never see this base again. Not that he would miss it. Better take everything then.
Bill dug his barracks bag out from under his bunk and packed carefully by dumping everything from his footlocker into it. There was still plenty of time before he had to board. He touched his sonowatch and it whispered dimly, "Senator McGurk, the trooper's friend, is pleased to tell you that the time is now twenty-three hundred hours." It was a cheap watch, a gift from his mother.
A few hours to drown his sorrows before they left. But he was completely broke. Bill looked around at the empty barracks and wondered who had any booze. Not the recruits, certainly. The sergeant's cell was in the comer and he went and rapped on the door.
"You in there, Sarge?"
The answer was only silence, which was fine.
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He wrenched the metal end off the nearest bed and broke the door in. The place was a pigsty-but this pig was a real boozer. Bill selected two of the most lethal looking bottles. Hid one in his barracks bag and cracked the seal on the other. As soon as the steam had stopped rising he drank deep and sighed happily. Before he got too zonked he set the alarm on the sonowatch.
When McGurk, the trooper's friend, told him it was time to wakey-wakey Bill was just finishing the bottle. He staggered to his feet and shouldered his barracks bag. That is he made a feeble attempt to shoulder it, but instead of him pulling it up it pulled him down.
"Wosha," he said, watching the lights go round and round as he leaned on the bag for support.
"You like it down there, sir?" a voice said. After much blinking Bill made out the form of one of the recruits standing over him. Bulging of eye and strong of shoulder. After a few failed attempts to speak Bill managed a coherent and fairly articulate
sentence.
"I do not like it down here."
Muttering sympathetically, the recruit helped Bill to his swaying feet, steadied him until he stayed vertical.
"Name..." Bill said with slow precision.
"Name's Wurber, your honor. Ahh just arrived..."
"Shut up. Pick up that bag. Hold me up. Walk."
In this manner they weaved their way to the landing pad. Bill shuddered at the sight of the battered tug, then permitted Wurber to support him as they climbed painfully aboard.
The recruit's generosity was well rewarded by
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his being drafted to load supplies, drafted a second time to fill out the depleted crew. Thus does the military render swift justice to those who break the first commandment: