"Norton, Andre - Solar Queen 04 - Postmarked The Stars" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

had to hold on tightly while the surface, which should have offered solid security, bucked and swung under
him.

But as if recognition of his identity unlocked some barrier, he could think. He was still deathly ill and
dizzy, but he could force himself to sort out the events of the immediate past, or at least part of it. He was
Dane Thorson, acting cargo master of the Queen because Van Ryke, his superior, was off-world and would
join them only at the end of this voyage. And this was the Solar Queen, a free trader--

But as Dane turned his head carefully, he knew that that was not true. He was not in his familiar cabin on
board ship--this was a room. He forced himself to study his surroundings for some clue to aid limping
memory. There was the bed on which he had been lying, two snap-down seats pulled out of the wall, no
windows but an air plate near the ceiling, two doors, both closed. A wan light came from a ceiling set rod.
It was a bare room, not unlike a cell. A cell--memory spiraled back.

They had been Patrol Posted. This was a cell--No! That was all done with. They had finned down on
Xecho, ready to ship out for Trewsworld on their first mail run--

Ship out! As if those two words were a spur, Dane tried to get to his feet. He nearly fell, but somehow he
balanced along the wall, his stomach heaving for tortured moments of misery. He caught at the nearest
door, his weight dragging it open, and found that some merciful instinct had brought him to the fresher.
Then he proceeded to be thoroughly and violently ill.

Still shaking from racking spasms, he managed to get to water and splash it over his face and upper body,
thus becoming aware for the first time that he was not wearing his uniform tunic, though breeches and
space boots still clothed him.

The water and, oddly, the nausea, seemed to pull him farther out of the fog. He wavered back into the
room, staring about him while he thought. His last clear memory was--what?

Message--what message? That there was a registered package to be picked up, under standard one
priority. For a few seconds he had a clear mental picture of the cargo master's office on the Queen, of Tang
Ya, the com-tech, standing in the door.

Last-minute pickup--last minute! The Queen was set for takeoff!

Panic hit him. He did not know what had happened. The message--and he must have left the ship--but
where was here? And--even more important--when was now? The Queen had a schedule all the more
important because she was, if temporarily, a mail ship. How long had he been here? Surely they would not
have lifted without him! And how and why, as well as where--

Dane rubbed a hand across his sweating forehead. Odd, he was dripping with sweat, and yet he shook with
a chill inside. There was a tunic--He wavered to the bed and fumbled with the garment that had been
tossed there.

Not his. It was not the sober brown of a spaceman but rather a gaudy, though faded, purple with raveling
embroidery. But because he was so cold, he pulled it about him. Then he made for the other door, one that
must get him out of here--wherever here was! The Queen set to lift and he not on board--

His legs still tended to buckle under him, but he kept on them and walking. The door gave to his weak
shove, and he was in a corridor, with a long line of other doors, all closed. But at the far end was an arch