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

miracle of misapplied engineering caused his own face to appear on the
illustrated figure dressed in trooper red. The sergeant flipped the pages, and
on each plate the uniform was a little more gaudy, the rank higher. The last
one was that of a grand-admiral, and Bill blinked at his own face under the
plumed helmet, now with a touch of crow's-feet about the eyes and sporting a
handsome and grayshot mustache, but still undeniably his own.
"That's the way you will look," the sergeant murmured into his ear, "once you
have climbed the ladder of success. Would you like to try a uniform on? Of
course you would like to try a uniform on. Tailorl"
When Bill opened his mouth to protest the sergeant put a large cigar into it,
and before he could get it out the robot tailor had rolled up, swept a
curtain-bearing arm about him and stripped him naked. "Hey! Hey!" he said.
"It won't hurt," the sergeant said, poking his great head through the curtain
and beaming at Bill's muscled form.. He poked a finger into a pectoral (rock),
then withdrew.
"Ouch!" Bill said, as the tailor extruded a cold pointer and jabbed him with
it, measuring his size. Something went chunk deep inside its tubular torso, and
a brilliant red jacket began to emerge from a slot in the front. In an instant
this was slipped onto Bill and the shining golden buttons buttoned. Luxurious
gray moleskin trousers were pulled on next, then gleaming black knee-length
boots. Bill staggered a bit as the curtain was whipped away and a powered
full-length mirror rolled up.
"Oh, how the girls love a uniform," the sergeant said, "and I can't blame
them."
A memory of the vision of Inga-Maria Calyphigia's matched white moons
obscured Bill's sight for a moment, and when it had cleared he found he was
grasping a stylo and was about to sign the form that the recruiting sergeant
held before him.
"No," Bill said, a little amazed at his own firmness of mind. "I don't really
want to. Technical Fertilizer Operator . . ."
"And not only will you receive this lovely uniform, an enlistment bonus, and
a free medical examination, but you will be awarded these handsome medals."
The sergeant took a flat box, offered to him on cue by a robot, and opened it
to display a glittering array of ribbons and bangles. "This is the Honorable
Enlistment Award," he intoned gravely, pinning a jewel-encrusted nebula,
pendant on chartreuse, to Bill's wide chest. "And the Emperor's Congratulatory
Gilded Horn, the Forward to Victory Starburst, the Praise Be Given Salutation
of the Mothers of the Victorious Fallen, and the Everflowing Cornucopia which
does not mean anything but looks nice and can be used to carry contraceptives."
He stepped back and admired Bill's chest; which was now adangle with ribbons,
shining metal, and gleaming paste gems.
"I just couldn't," Bill said. "Thank you anyway for the offer, but . . . "
The sergeant smiled, prepared even for this eleventh-hour resistance, and
pressed the button on his belt that actuated the programed hypno-coil in the
heel of Bill's new boot. The powerful neural current surged through the
contacts and Bill's hand twitched and jumped, and when the momentary fog had
lifted from his eyes he saw that he had signed his name.
"But...'
"Welcome to the Space Troopers;" the sergeant boomed, smacking him on the
back (trapezius like rock) and relieving him of the stylo. "FALL IN!" he called