"Henry Kuttner - Beggars in Velvet UC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kuttner Henry)

"But now a new time's coming. We can't live in the towns; we don't want to. But there's room enough for everybody. We still don't see why they set up these con-consulates; still, we'll string along. We got a word."
Burkhalter knew about that, too. It was the Cody's word, whispered through the Hedgehound tribes-a word they would not disobey.
He said, "Some of the Hedgehound tribes ought to be wiped out. Not many. You kill them yourselves, whenever you find them-"
"Th' cannibals," Mattoon said. "Yeah. We kill them."
"But they're a minority. The main group of Hedgehounds have no quarrel with the townsfolk. And vice versa. We want to stop the raids."
"How do you figger on doin' that?"
"If a tribe has a bad winter, it needn't starve. We've methods of making foods. It's a cheap method. We can afford to let you have grub when you're hungry."
Vine slammed his whiskey glass down on the table and snarled something. Mattoon patted the air with a large palm.
"Easy, Umpire. He don't know... listen, Burkhalter. The Hedgehounds raid sometimes, sure. They hunt, and they fight for what they get. But they don't beg."
"I'm talking about barter," Burkhalter said. "Fair exchange. We can't set up force shields around every village. And we can't use Eggs on nomads. A lot of raids would be a nuisance, that's all. There haven't been many raids so far; they've been lessening every year. But why should there be any at all? Get rid of the motivation, and the effect's gone too."
Unconsciously he probed at Alvers' mind. There. was a thought there, a sly crooked hungry thought, the avid alertness of a carnivore-and the concept of a hidden weapon.
Burkhalter jerked back. He didn't want to know. He had to wait for the Cody to move though the temptation to provoke an open battle with Alvers was dangerously strong. Yet that would only antagonize the other Hedgehounds; they couldn't read Vine's mind as Burkhalter could.
"Barter what?" Vine grunted.
Burkhalter had the answer ready. "Pelts. There's a demand for them. They're fashionable." He didn't mention that it was an artificially created fad. "Furs, for one thing. And-"
"We ain't Red Indians," Mattoon said. "Look what happened to them! There ain't nothing we need from townsfolk, except when we're starving. Then-well, maybe we can barter."
"If the Hedgehounds unified-"
Alvers grinned. "In the old days," he said in a high, thin voice, "the tribes that unified got dusted off with the Eggs. We ain't unifying, brother!"
"He speaks fair, though," Mattoon said. "It makes sense. It was our granddaddies who had a feud with the villages. We've shaken down pretty well. My tribe ain't gone hungry for seven winters now. We migrate, we go where the pickin's are good and we get along."
"My tribe don't raid," Vine growled. He poured more whiskey.
Mattoon and Alvers had taken only two drinks; Vine kept pouring it down, but his capacity seemed unlimited. Now Alvers said, "It seems on the level. One thing I don't like. This guy's a baldy."
Vine turned his enormous barrel of a torso and regarded Alvers steadily. "What you got against Baldies?" he demanded.
"We don't know nothing about' em. I heard stories-"
Vine said something rude. Mattoon laughed.
"You ain't polite, Kit Carson. Burkhalter's playin' host. Don't go throwing words around."
Alvers shrugged, glanced away, and stretched. He reached into his shirt to scratch himself-and suddenly the thought of murder hit Burkhalter like a stone from a slingshot. It took every ounce of his will power to remain motionless as Alvers' hand slid back into view, a pistol coming into sight with it.
There was time for the other Hedgehounds to see the weapon, but no time for them to interfere. The death-thought anticipated the bullet. A flare of blinding, crimson light blazed
through the room. Something, moving like an invisible whirlwind, flashed among them; then, as their eyes adjusted, they stood where they had leaped from their chairs, staring at the figure who confronted them.
He wore a tight-fitting suit of scarlet, with a wide black belt, and an expressionless mask of silver covered his face. A blue-black beard emerged from under it and rippled down his chest. Enormous muscular development showed beneath the skin-tight garments.
He tossed Alvers' pistol into the air and caught it. Then, with a deep, chuckling laugh, he gripped the weapon in both hands and broke the gun into a twisted jumble of warped metal.
"Break a truce, will you?" he said. "You little pipsqueak. What you need is the livin' daylights whaled outa you, Alvers."
He stepped forward and smashed the flat of his palm against Alvers' side. The sound of the blow rang through the room. Alvers was lifted into the air and slammed against the further wall. He screamed once, dropped into a huddle, and lay there motionless.
"Git up," the Cody said. "You ain't hurt. Mebbe a rib cracked, that's all. If'n I'd smacked your head, I'd have broke your neck clean. Git up!"
Alvers dragged himself upright, his face dead white and sweating. The other two Hedgehounds watched, impassive and alert.
"Deal with you later on. Mattoon. Vine. What you got to do with this?"
"Nuthin'," Mattoon said. "Nuthin', Cody. You know that."
The silver mask was impassive. "Lucky fer you I do. Now listen. What I say goes. Tell Alvers' tribe they'll haVe to find a new boss. That's all."
He stepped forward. His arms closed about Alvers, and the Hedgehound yelled in sudden panic. Then the red blaze flared out again. When it had died, both figures were gone.
"Got any more whiskey, Burkhalter?" Vine said.
IV
The Cody was in telepathic communication with the Mute, Hobson. Like the other three Codys, this one wore the same modulated-frequency helmet as the Mutes; it was impossible for any Baldy or paranoid to tune in on that scrambled, camouflaged wave length.
It was two hours after sundown.
Alvers is dead, Hobson. Telepathy has no colloquialisms that can be expressed in language-symbols.
Necessary?
Yes. Absolute obedience to the Cody-a curiously mingled four-in-one concept-is vital. Nobody can be allowed to defy the Cody and get away with it.
Any repercussions?
None. Mattoon and Vine are agreeable. They got along Хwith Burkhalter. What's wrong with him, Hobson?
The moment the question was asked, the Cody knew the answer. Telepaths have no secrets but subconscious ones- and the Mute helmet can even delve a little into the secret mind.
In love with a paranoid? The Cody was shocked.
He doesn't know it. He mustn't realize it yet. He'd have to reorient; that would take time; we can't afford to have him in the side lines just now. Trouble's bound to pop.
What?