"Harrison, Harry - Bill, The Galactic Hero 01 - Bill, The Galactic Hero" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

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
subsonics and aimed a tight-beam stimulator at the back of his victim's head.
Bill writhed in his seat, almost taking part in the glorious battles unfolding
before him.
As the last chord died and the screen went blank, the refreshment robot
pounded hollowly on its metallic chest and bellowed, "DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!"
The sheeplike audience swept that way, all except Bill, who was plucked from
their midst by a powerful arm.
"Here, I saved some for you," the sergeant said, passing over a prepared cup
so loaded with dissolved ego-reducing drugs that they were crystallizing out at
the bottom. "You're a fine figure of a lad and to my eye seem a cut above the
yokels here. Did you ever think of making your career in the forces?"
"I'm not the military type, Shargeant . . ." Bill chomped his jaws and spat
to remove the impediment to his speech and puzzled at the sudden-fogginess in
his thoughts. Though it was a tribute to his physique that he was even
conscious after the volume of drugs and sonics that he had been plied with.
"Not the military type. My fondest ambition is to be of help in the best way I
can, in my chosen career as a Technical Fertilizer Operator, and I'm almost
finished with my correspondence course . . . "
"That's a crappy job for a bright lad like you," the sergeant said, while
clapping him on the arm to get a good feel of his biceps. Rock: He resisted the
impulse to pull Bill's lip down and take a quick peek at the condition of his
back teeth. Later. "Leave that kind of job to those that like it. No chance of
promotion. While a career in the troopers has no top. Why, Grand-Admiral
Pflunger came up through the rocket tubes, as they say, from, recruit trooper
to grandadmiral. How does that sound?"
"It sounds very nice for Mr. Pflunger, but I think fertilizer operating is
more fun. Gee-I'm feeling sleepy. I think I'll go lie down."
"Not before you've seen this, just as a favor to me of course," the sergeant
said, cutting in front of him and pointing to a large book held open by a tiny
robot. "Clothes make the man, and most men would be ashamed to be seen in a
crummy-looking smock like that thing draped around you or wearing those broken
canal boats on their feet. Why look like that when you can look like this?"
Bill's eyes followed the thick finger to the color plate in the book where a