"Herbert, Frank - Escape Felicity" - читать интересную книгу автора (Herbert Brian & Frank)

'We'll toogayala in just a minute,' Beirut muttered. He brought out a Borgen machine pistol, donned body armor, aimed two of the ship's bombards directly at the steam wagon and set them on a dead-man switch keyed to a fifteen-second stoppage of his heart. He rigged the stern port to the PTW syslem, keyed to blow up any unauthorized intruders. Into various pockets he stuffed a lingua pack receptor tuned to his implanted speaker through the computer, a standard contact kit for sampling whatever interested him, a half dozen minigrenades, energy tablets, food analyzer, a throwing knife in a sheath, a miniscanner linked to the shipcomputer and a slingshot. With a final, grim sensation, he stuffed a medikit under the armor next to his heart.
One more glance around the familiar control center and he slid down the tube to the stern port, opened it and stepped out.

The five natives threw themselves flat on the ground, arms extended toward him.
Beirut took a moment to study them and his surroundings. There was a freshness to the air that even his nose filters could not diminish. It was morning here yet and the sun threw flat light against the low hills and clumps of scrub. They stood out with a clean chiaroscuro dominated by the long blue spear of the ship's shadow wavering across the prairie.
Beirut looked up at his B-ship. She was a red and white striped tower on his side with a gaping hole where the nose should have been. Her number - 1107 - stenciled in luminous green beneath the nose had just escaped the damage area. He returned his attention to the natives.
They remained stretched out on the grass, their stalked eyes stretched out and peering up at him.
'Let's hope you have a good metal-working industry, friends,' Beirut said. 'Otherwise, I'm going to be an extremely unhappy visitor.'
At the sound of his voice, the five grunted in unison: 'Toogayala ung-ung.'
'Ung-ung?' Beirut asked. 'I thought we were going to toogaya-la.' He brought out the linguapack, hung it on his chest with the mike aimed at the natives, moved toward them out of the ship's shadow. As an afterthought, he raised his right hand, palm out and empty in the universal human gesture of peace, but kept his left hand on the Borgen.
'Toogayala!' the five screamed.
His linguapack remained silent. Toogayala and ung-ung were hardly sufficient for breaking down a language.
Beirut took another step toward them.
The five rocked back to then: knees and arose, crouching and apparently poised for flight. Five pairs of stalked eyes pointed toward him. Beirut had the curious feeling then that the five appeared familiar. They looked a little like giant grasshoppers that had been crossed with an ape. They looked like bug-eyed monsters from a work of science fantasy he had read in his youth, which he saw as clear evidence that what the imagination of man could conceive, nature could produce.
Beirut took another step toward the natives, said: 'Well, let's talk a little, friends. Say something. Make language, huh.'
The five backed up two steps. Their feet made a dry rustling sound in the grass.
Beirut swallowed. Their silence was a bit unnerving.
Abruptly, something emitted a buzzing sound. It seemed to come from a native on Beirut 's right. The creature clutched for its tunic, gabbled: 's'Chareecha! s'Chareecha!' It pulled a small object from a pocket to the others gathered around.
Beirut tensed, lifted the Borgen.
The natives ignored him to concentrate on the object in the one creature's hands.
'What's doing?' Beirut asked. He felt tense, uneasy. This wasn't going at all the way the books said it should.
The five straightened suddenly and without a backward look, returned to their steam wagon and climbed into the cab.
What test did I fail? Beirut wondered.
Silence settled over the scene.

In the course of becoming a B-ship pilot, Beirut had gained fame for a certain pungency of speech. He paused a moment to practice some of his more famed selections, then took stock of his situation - standing here exposed at the foot of the ship while the unpredictable natives remained in their steam wagon. He clambered back through the port, sealed it, and jacked into the local computer outlet for a heart-to-heart conference.
'The buzzing item was likely a timepiece,' the computer said. The creature in possession of it was approximately two millimeters taller than his tallest companion. 'There are indications this one is the leader of the group.'
'Leader schmeader,' Beirut said. 'What's this toogayala they keep yelling?'
From long association with Beirut , the computer had adopted a response pattern to meet the rhetorical question or the question for which there obviously was no answer. 'Tut, tut,' it said.
'You sound like my old Aunt Martha,' Beirut said. 'They screamed that toogayala. It's obviously important.'
'When they noted your hand, that is when they raised their voices to the highest decibel level thus far recorded here,' the computer said.
'But why?'
'Possible answer,' the computer said. 'You have five fingers.'
'Five,' Beirut said. 'Five ... five ... five ... '
'We detect only five heavenly bodies here,' the computer said. 'You have noted that the skies are otherwise devoid of stars. The rapid companion is overhead right now, you know.'
'Five.' Beirut said.
'This planet,' the computer said, 'the three hot gaseous and plasma bodies and the other companion to this planet's sun.'
Beirut looked at his hand, flexed the fingers.
'They may think you are a deity,' the computer said. 'They have six fingers; you have five.'
'Empty skies except for three suns,' Beirut said.
'Don't forget this planet and the other companion,' the computer said.
Beirut thought about living on such a planet - no banks of stars across the heavens ... all that hidden behind the enclosing hydrogen cloud.
He began to tremble unaccountably with an attack of the push.
'What'll it take to fix the nose of the ship?' Beirut asked. He tried to still his trembling.
'A sophisticated machine shop and the work of electronics technicians of at least grade five. The repair data is available in my banks.'
'What're they doing in that machine?' Beirut demanded. 'Why don't they talk?'
'Tut, tut,' the computer said.

Thirty-eight minutes later, the natives again emerged from their steam wagon, took up stations standing at the edge of the charred ground.