"Andre Norton - Jern Murdock 02 - Uncharted Stars" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

light was a sickly green might have had somethingto do with his queasy
expression. But he roused to pull the beaker beforehim into place and bend
his head to catch the suck tube between his lips.And he went on drinking as
we came to the side of the booth.Perhaps he would not have been my first
choice. But the stained insignia onhis collar was that of a pilot and he
was the only one I had sighted here.Also, he was the only humanoid with a
face I would halfway trust, and Eetappeared to have singled him out.He did
not look up as I slipped into the bench across from him, but thelizard
waiter slithered up and I pointed to the drinker, then raised afinger,
ordering a return for my unknown boothmate. The latter glanced at mewithout
dropping the tube from his lip hold. His brows drew together in ascowl and
then he spat out his sipper and said in a slurred mumble:"Blast! Whatever
you're offering--I'm not buying.""You are a pilot," I countered. The
lizardoid had made double time towhatever sewer the drinks had been piped
from and slammed down anotherbeaker. I flipped a tenth-point credit and
one of his second pair of handsclawed it out of the air so fast I never really
saw it disappear."You're late in your reckoning." He pushed aside his first
and now emptybeaker, drew the second to him. "I was a pilot.""System or
deep-space ticket?" I asked. He paused, the sipper only afraction away
from his lips. "Deep space. Do you want to see it all plainand proper?"
There was a sneer in his growl. "And what's it to you, anyway?"There is
this about fash-smoking--while it makes a man temporarilybelligerent
during indulgence, it also alters the flow of emotion so thatbetween
bouts, where rage might normally flare, one gets only a flash ofweak
irritation."A lot maybe. Want a job?"He laughed then, seemingly in real
amusement. "Again you're too late. I'mplanet-rooted now.""You offered to show
your plate. That hasn't been confiscated?" I persisted."No. But that's just
because no one cares enough to squawk. I haven't liftedfor two planet years,
and that's the truth. Quite a spiller tonight, aren'tI? Maybe they've cooked
some babble stuff into this goop." He stared downinto his beaker with dim
interest, as if he expected to see somethingfloating on its turgid
surface.Then he mouthed the sipper, but with one hand he pulled at the frayed
frontseam of his tunic and brought out, in a shaking hand, a badly-worn
case,which he dropped on the table top, not pushing it toward me, but rather
asif he were indifferent to any interest of mine in its contents. I
reachedfor it just as another ripple of light in the wall pattern gave me
sight ofthe plate within that covering.It had been issued to one Kano Ryzk,
certified pilot for galactic service.The date of issuance was some ten years
back, and his age was noted asproblematical, since he had been space-born. But
what did startle me was thesmall symbol deeply incised below his name-- a
symbol which certified him asa Free Trader.From their beginnings as men who
were willing to take risks outside theregular lines, which were the
monopolies of the big combines, the FreeTraders, loners and explorers by
temperament, had become, through severalcenturies of space travel, more and
more a race apart. They tended to lookupon their ships as their home
worlds, knowing no planet for any length oftime, ranging out where only
First-in Scouts and such explorers dared to go.In the first years they had
lived on the short rations of those who snatchat the remnants of the feast
the combines grew fat upon.Not able to bid at the planet auctions when newly
discovered worlds were putup for sale to those wanting their trade, they