"Norton, Andre - Galactic Derelict" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

GALACTIC DERELICT

ously. "This climate preserves. We've found baskets, fabrics, fragile things lasting--"
"111 take the bones and baskets--in place of some other things." Ross held his scarred hand against his
chest and rubbed its seamed flesh with the other, as if soothing a wound which still ached. "Better get
out the lights if the boys are going to drop in tonight."
The pinto continued to graze in the center of the meadow while Ross and Ashe paced out two lines and
spaced small plastic canisters at intervals. Travis, -watching, guessed they were marking a landing site.
But it was twice the size needed by a 'copter such as the one now standing beyond. Then Ashe settled
with his back against a tree, reading the leaves of a bulging notebook, while Ross brought out a roll of
felt and opened it.
What he uncovered was a set of five stone points, beauti-fully fashioned, too long to be arrowheads.
And Travis recog-nized their distinctive shape, the pattern of those flaked edges! Far better
workmanship than the later productions of his own people, yet much older. He had held their like in his
hands, admired the artistry of the forgotten weapon maker who had patiently chipped them into being.
Folsom points! They were intended to head the throwing spears of men who went up so equipped
against mammoth, giant bison, cave bear, and Alaskan lion.
"Folsom man here?" He saw Ross glance toward him, Ashe's attention lift from the notebook.
Ross picked up the last point in that row, held it out to Travis. He took it carefully. The head was
perfect, fine. He turned it over between his fingers and then paused--not sure of what he knew, or why.
"Fake."
Yet was it? He had handled Folsom points and some, in spite of their great age, had been as perfectly
preserved as

17

GALACTIC DERELICT

this one. Only--this did not feel right. He could give no better reason for his judgment than that.
"What makes you think so?" Ashe wanted to know. "That one was certified by Stefferds." Ross took
up the second point from the line. But Travis, instead of being confounded by that certification
from the authority on pre-historic American remains, remained sure of his own appraisal. "Not the
right feel to it."
Ashe nodded to Ross, who picked up a third stone head, offering it in exchange for the one Travis
still held. The new point was, to all examination by eye, a copy of the first. Yet, as he ran a
forefinger along the fine serrations of the flaked edge, Travis knew that this was the real thing, and
he said so.
"Well, well." Ross studied his store of points. "Something new had been added," he informed the
empty space before him.
"It's been done before," Ashe said. "Give him your gun." For a moment it seemed as if Ross might
refuse, and he frowned as he drew the weapon. The Apache, putting down the Folsom point with care,
took the weapon and examined it closely. Though its general shape was that of a revolver, there
were enough differences to make it totally new to Travis. He sighted it at a tree trunk and found
that when it was held correctly for firing, the grip was not altogether com-fortable, as if the hand for
which it had been fashioned was not quite like his own.
There was another difference growing in his mind the longer he held the weapon. He did not like

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