"Harry Harrison & David Bischoff - Bill the Galactic Hero 6 -" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

creature went down like a sack of bloody potatoes, spasming and slashing still at its prey. Jaws snapping,
it pulled itself toward the Director.
J. Edgar Insufledor threw aside his Thompson. "This is a job for Deathdealer," he said, a smile crinkling
the corners of his mouth and eyes. From behind his desk he pulled out a two-handed claymore sword.
"Okay Chinger. Let me show you how a real man deals with a bowby alien."
J. Edgar stepped forward and proceeded to hack open the Chinger's skull with untrammeled ferocity.
Green blood geysered everywhere, splattering on the walls and, when he ventured a peek, into Bill's eyes.
By the time he cleared his vision the Chinger was literally chopped into nuggets on the carpet, oozing and
stone-cold dead. Only the tip of its tail flickered about like a snake whose head has been lopped off.
"Bill!" cried J. Edgar Insufledor. Somehow in the struggle, the top of his shirt had unbuttoned, revealing a
clump of manly chest hair. He put a possessive foot on the largest chunk of the creature and seemed to
pose like a big game hunter. "Some tussle, eh? Wise of you to take cover! These varmints are mean
mothers!"
Hesitantly, Bill rose up from his hiding place. "You wouldn't have a shot of whiskey hiding anywhere
about, would you?"
"Nope. Don't touch the stuff. Harms my precious Puritan bodily fluids. But your taste for it and your
unusual record of service is why the GBI wants you!"
Skimmilquetoast stuck his head into the office. "Oh dear. Thank Mithra, sir! You got it. The assassin
Chinger just charged through, slapped me aside and headed straight in for YOU!" The man turned to Bill
and gave him a broad wink. Bill, nonplussed, could only gape. "Yet, once again, you have saved yourself
and the day, to say nothing of the welfare of the Galaxy!"
The Director grunted. "All in a day's work. Just get a crew in to clean this mess up. And oh тАФ mount the
usual trophy with its head, eh Skimmilquetoast? Makes for a wonderful dinner conversation piece!"
"Yes, sir!"
"Now then, Bill. You will be dispatched to Barworld with complete instructions surgically
subcutaneously planted in your left earlobe. However, although you certainly enjoy your drink, it has
been determined that you are not sufficiently тАФ er тАФ alcoholic, not to mince words, for the full cover we
need." Insufledor sucked on his cigar, then scooped up a folder drenched in lizard blood and handed it to
Bill. "This contains the information on the most alcoholic Trooper still serving in the Galactic Troopers.
He shall be your companion. The first part of your mission shall be to find this man, sober him up long
enough to brief him, then bring him back. We will then send you off to Barworld to see into this very


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 Bill, the Galactic Hero on the Planet of The Hippies From Hell

important matter."
"Yes, sir!" he snapped ecstatically, visions of countless bottles dancing in his head.
He didn't want to louse up a chance to go to Barworld! It was a Trooper's fantasy, and one of Bill's few
heartfelt ambitions.
"Skimmilquetoast. Show this fine Trooper out. Oh, and get a move on getting those janitors in to clean
this up. Tell security to be a little more on their toes, eh? Can't do their work for them all the time, now,
can I?"
"Yes, sir! Trooper, would you please be so kind as to aid me in hauling this disgusting thing from the
Director's office so as not to disgust him any further?" The assistant picked up one of the feet and nodded
toward the other. Bill shrugged and did so, bringing his ample strength to bear. Outside the office, the
Director's door slammed shut. The Chinger's arm got stuck in a fishhook-coated modernist wire sculpture.
Bill tugged harder and the Chinger's leg, half-ripped off with bullet wounds anyway, came off trailing
hunks of lizard flesh, veins and wires.
Wires?