" Perry Rhodan 0011 - (5b) Mutants in Action" - читать интересную книгу автора (Perry Rhodan)

The oldster suddenly narrowed his eyes and poured forth a stream of words totally incomprehensible to
Deringhouse. The Earthman knew that there were many different regional languages in the Ferronian
Empire, but normally the standard commercial language was used. This tongue he did not understand in
the slightest, and he became wary when it appeared that the old man was putting him to a test.

"I canтАЩt understand a single word," he admitted.

The oldster nodded. "When one is as tall as you, my son, he would ordinarily have to be a Sicha," he
explained laconically. "But you are no Sicha. You must be from a very far place. What did you want?
Something to eat?"

Bewildered, Deringhouse could only nod affirmatively. The old man turned and pointed to the village
toward which the small road led.

"Go there. My son owns a tavern there. If you will tell him that PerkтАЩla sent you, he will give you more
than you can eat at one sitting. But do not forget the nameтАУPerkтАЩla."



Deringhouse expressed his gratitude. The emphasis the old man placed on the name was disconcerting,
and when the other left him he considered the advisability of enduring his hunger a while longer instead of
falling into a trap. But there was no proof that this was a trap, and the old man had made a friendly and
trustworthy impression, in spite of his apparent habit of secretiveness.

It was about noon of the thirty-eight hour Ferrol day. The glaring sunlight lay oppressively on the
meadows and woodlands, and the high humidity generated a sweat. Deringhouse knew that he couldnтАЩt
have kept on walking much longer. The village streets were empty. He realized that he had forgotten to
ask the man the name of his sonтАЩs tavern, but that difficulty soon resolved itself by virtue of the fact that
there was only one such establishment in town.

Deringhouse unlatched the door and allowed it to swing open; then he stepped inside the equivalent of a
taproom, or bar. It looked like the dining room of an expensive hotel. There were black plastic wood
tables, clean tablecloths, and comfortable chairs. However, there were no guests in sight. He sat down at
a table and waited until the service automat in the centre of the table popped open and produced writing
foil and a stylus.

A mechanical voice rattled at him in the Ferronian commercial language, "Your order, please."

Deringhouse took the sheet of foil and wrote, "Am looking for the proprietor, please. I have been sent
by PerkтАЩla." He replaced the foil and stylus in the tiny compartment and said, "Thank you."

In response, the apparatus folded back into its slot; there was a moment of buzzing and then all was
silence. Suddenly, he heard footsteps behind him. Before he ventured to look up, someone spoke to him.

"Are you the man that PerkтАЩla sent here?"

Deringhouse looked up and scrutinized the small, broad-shouldered Ferronian who stood near his table.
"As you can see," he answered. "Or are there several he has sent?"