"Jeffrey Lord - Blade 19 - Looters of Tharn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lord Jeffery)

the city beyond. Several columns of thick black smoke were coiling greasily up into the air, rising as high
as the tops of the tallest towers before the wind broke them up and spread them out. Blade froze for a
minute, watching and listening. He thought he could hear occasional hissing and crackling sounds,
followed by the crash of heavy weights falling.

Blade would have given a good deal to be able to stand up and get a better look at what was going on in
the city. Something new and perhaps deadly was at work there. But he couldn't risk being detected
prematurely by the war machine. He went on crawling.

Finally he reached his intended position. He was less than thirty yards from the machine. That was a
distance he could cover in a matter of seconds even in the long grass. The ray-tube was pointed a
hundred and eighty degrees away from him. It would take time for it to swing back toward him.
Hopefully it would take more time than it would take him to reach the platform on the rear of the
machine. He could see some kind of hatch there.

If his guess was right, he didn't need to worry about the purple ray. But he might be wrong, and then he
might be dead if he made too easy a target of himself.

Blade took a deep breath, sprang to his feet, and ran toward the machine.

Chapter 6

Blade hurled himself through the grass in great leaping bounds. Once grass tangled around his ankles and
he staggered and nearly went sprawling on his face. Several times thorny branches raked his calves,
leaving oozing scratches. His heart pounded with the exertion, but even more it pounded with the tension
of waiting. Would the turret swing in time, and if it did, would the purple ray lance out at him?

He was barely halfway to the machine when he saw that the turret was turning faster than he had
expected. The tube would be bearing on him in seconds. His throat went dry at the thought, but his legs
went on churning and his mind went right on working. If death was only moments away, he would die on
his feet, fighting and thinking to the last.

Clank-clank-clank-screeeeeech. The tube was rising into firing position. Thirty yards to go. Twenty-five.
Twenty. The tube was bearing directly on him now. More lights flashed on, and the purple lens at the end
of the tube glowed like a neon sign.

Nothing happened.

In a moment of wild joy Blade realized that he had guessed right. The machine would not, could not fire
at something that did not register as a possible enemy.

If he had been able to spare the breath, he would have let out a sigh of relief. But he didn't have the
breath, or time to stop and catch it. He lengthened his stride, arms and legs pumping furiously. The
machine might not fire at him, but it might still fly or walk away.

Fifteen yards.

Ten yards.

Five yards.