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

"To get my barracks bag."
"Why? What's outside?"
"Desert. just a lot of garbage and sand and nothing else in sight. No dragons, no nothing."
Pratkis blinked rapidly. "Then just why the hell are you getting your barracks bag, Trooper?"
"I'm getting out ofhere. The garbage is on fire."
Pratkis's scream of pain and shouted commands followed Bill when, equipped with barracks bag, he bailed out through the open door. He did not stop nor even bother to look back. The lesson with the greatest value that he had learned during his years in the troopers was a simple one: cover your ass. He only stopped when he was clear of the tug, threw down his bag and, breathing heavily, sat on a sand dune. Nodding appreciatively, he watched the evacuation of the tug with great interest.
Pained screams and a great deal of shouting and pounding came from the open lock. In a few moments a box of supplies thudded into the sand, to be followed closely by more containers and crates. Since his own survival was at stake he went to help, dragging them clear and going back for more. The flames crackled and grew close. He pulled one more crate to safety then shouted into the ship.
"Anyone getting out better do it now or never." Then jumped aside as the rats deserted the burning ship. After them came the crew, coughing and scrambling for safety away from the flames.
Pratkis was first, of course, since the commander always leads from the front. Particularly during a retreat. Cy was next, staggering under the
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weight of some electronic junk, followed closely by Wurber and Captain Bly. Followed by a stranger. Not only a stranger, Bill realized, but a strangerette. A female person with stripes on her arms.
"Who ...who...you?" Bill asked. She looked him up and down with scorn.
"Knock off the owl imitation, bowbhead, and say ma'am when speaking to a superior officer. Report. Name, rank and condition."
"Yes, sir-ma'am. Trooper Bill, ma'am, draftee, hungover, tired."
"You look it. I'm Engine Mate First Class Tarsil. Put my suitcase with the rest of the stuff."
"As you command, Engine Mate First Class Tarsil."
"Since we are shipmates you can call me by my first name. Meta." She reached out and squeezed his arm. "You got good biceps, Bill."
Bill smiled ingratiatingly as he grabbed up her suitcase. It was always best to keep on the good side of the noncoms. Especially female noncoms. Though, really, he didn't think she was his type. He liked big girls, but not those a head taller than him. And her biceps, he pouted with inferiority, were really much bigger than his.
"Bill," a familiar and loathed voice called out. "Stop fraternizing and claw your way up here."
Bill joined Admiral Pratkis on the summit of the sand dune, looking out at the golden majesty of the setting sun. Which was really the only thing worth looking at since other than the sun, and the empty sky with one small cloud that vanished while they watched, there wasn't anything else.
"Sand, and an awful lot of it," Pratkis said with an expression of deep gloom.
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"That's what deserts are like, sir," Bill said brightly. Pratkis turned a withering glare and scornful sneer upon him.
"When I want that kind of bright Pollyanna bowb I will ask for it. Do you realize the kind of hole that we are in? There is myself and there is you, which is not saying very much. And what else? That dim recruit who was probably a dim civilian yesterday, the captain who is already stoned out of his mind, an electronic technician with no electronics-and that overweight oversexed crewmember who is going to cause trouble, bet on that. We got some food, some water-and little else. I have the intensely gloomy sensation that we are for the chopping block."
"I have a suggestion, sir?"
"You do? Great! Speak quickly."
"Since you are in command and there is a war on-I want a battlefield commission."
"You want what?"
"A commission as a third lieutenant. I am an experienced trooper with plenty of service-related know-how-in addition to which I am the only one here with these qualifications. You will need my combat-hardened skills and professional knowledge. . ."
"Which I will not get unless you have some rank. All right bowb, not that it makes any difference. Kneel Recruit Bill. Rise Third Lieutenant Bill."
"Oh, thank you, sir. That makes all the difference," Bill simpered. Pratkis curled his lip with disgust while Bill dug the tarnished golden pips of a third lieutenant from his pocket and proudly pinned them to his epaulets.
"It is said that every real soldier with guts or talent, or both, marches with a marshal's baton in his pack. My goal is simpler..."
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"Shut up. Take your mind off of your pathetic military ambitions and apply whatever intelligence you have, the existence of which I am growing doubtful about, to the problem at hand. What do we do?"
His ambition fired by his newfound rank, Bill hurled himself in to the role with enthusiasm.
"Sir! We will begin by taking inventory of our supplies, which will be guarded at all times and rationed equally among all. When this has been done we will prepare sleeping accommodations for the night, since, as you can see, the sun is setting. Then I will draw up a guard's roster for the night, have a shortarm inspection, prepare battle plans. . ."
"Stop!" Pratkis called out hoarsely, eyes bulging at the military monster that he had created. "Let's just get our heads together and simply figure out what we have to do next, Lieutenant. Just that much, or it is instantly back to recruit rank with you."
Bill accepted the decision with all the bad grace he could muster up, kicking his clawed heel into the sand and scowling darkly. His military career in command had been brief. He trailed after Pratkis as they went back down the dune to join the others.
"Give me your attention," Pratkis called out. "All of you that is except Captain Bly who has stoned himself unconscious on that cheap drek he smokes. You, trooper, what's your name?"
"Witcher, your highness."
"Yes, Wurber, great to have you aboard. Now go through Captain Bly's pockets and get all the dope he has and bring it to me. When he surfaces he ';will probably have more stashed, but at least we can start with this. Now listen, the rest of you, we kinda Igot a problem..."
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"You ain't just blowing it out your barracks bag buster," Meta said.
"Yes, well, thank you miss..."
"Miss my butt, buster. There are laws against that male chauvinist pig stuff I am Engine Mate First Class Meta Tarsil."
"Yes, Engine Mate First Class, I fully understand your attitude. But might I also point out that we are far from civilization and all its laws. We are stranded on this unknown alien planet and we will have to work together. So let us abandon our little egos for a bit and try and find a way out of this mess. Are there any suggestions?"
"Yes," Cy said. "We pull a zingo and get out of here. This planet has a magnetic pole."
"So what?"
"So I got a compass. So we can walk in a straight line and not in circles. In the morning we load up whatever food and water that we can carry and split. It's either that or stay here until the natives find us. Whatever you say, Admiral. You're in charge."
The sun set at that moment and stygian darkness descended. Bill turned on his toe-torch and in its feeble illumination they settled down with their problems for the night. The stars appeared, unknown constellations in an unknown sky. It was a time that cried out for strong nerves. Or strong drink. Bill settled for the latter, craftily opened his barracks bag and stuck his head inside and drank from his hidden bottle until he passed out.