"Dragon Army" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morrison William)

prehistoric story.
Newell began to sort his seeds again. He was a big man in shorts, a thin film of
moisture covering his deeply bronzed skin. The pinkish sun was hot overhead, and
there was no wind at all. Only the creeping plants in the forest crackled from
time to time in response to some inner change in their metabolism.
When he had finished with his seeds, his hands almost dropping some of them in
his excitement, it was late, more than time to return to the plastex hut. He put
everything in order for the next day's experiments, and set out for home.
The forest was still quiet, but once a slight wind arose, and he had a sensation
of danger, and an urge to run. Don't be a fool, he told himself. There's no
danger, nothing to run from. He fought down the sense of panic, and forced
himself to walk slowly.
Outside the plastex hut he forced himself to stop. No use letting Bulkley see
how fundamentally excited he was. For a long time they had been without hope of
escape, and now that one unexpected door away from death had been opened,
Bulkley would be in a fever of anticipation. No use letting the man see the
eagerness, the hope which filled Newell himself at the thought of what he had
discovered.
As he had expected, Bulkley was sitting at the television set, his eyes glued to
the screen. A lithe girl, clothed mostly in veils of gauze, twisted and writhed
against an exotic purple and gold background. The same girl. This was the kind
of educational program Bulkley liked, he told himself with a grim smile. It was
a program that specialized in graphic illustration of the anthropology of alien
planets, with occasional excursions into the anthropology of the dead past. It
combined sex with instruction. A fine program, a fascinating program, a program
well calculated to drive a lonely man completely crazy.
Almost incidentally, Newell noted the dancer's face. It was half hidden by the
swirling gauze, but he could see that it was wistful and appealing. Bulkley had
probably not even noticed it, nor had he noted the name of the program chastely
displayed on a glowing placard at the right: EXTINCT DANCES OF EARTH. Bulkley
was too busy watching those lithe movements, anticipating the throwing off of
the next veil.
With a feeling of unexpected pleasure, Newell allowed himself to show a small
part of the hatred he felt. As the dancing girl whirled with flaring veils, he
reached over and turned off the set. The girl faded out.
Silence descended on the hut. The rows of transparent metal utensils hanging on
the wall, the clothes, transparent and opaque, neatly arrayed in the closets,
the store of precious raw plastex powder in the stock room, the tiny atomic
power plant at the sideЧall were silent. Silent and tense, as if waiting for a
thunderbolt to strike from the equally silent sky.
The thunder clouds were forming. A blank look spread over Bulkley's face. Then,
as he realized to the full the deliberateness of the act, he leaped to his feet,
his hand dropping to his holster. "I'll get you for that, you lousy space-warped
fool!"

THE MAN'S rage was destined to be frustrated, and that made it amusing. Newell
smiled, and dropped into a seat. "Calm down," he said. "I've got something
important to say to you. And you'd be in no condition to appreciate it after
watching that program."
"I'll watch what I damn please, you mind-twistedЧ"