" Perry Rhodan 0050 - (42) Time's Lonely One" - читать интересную книгу автора (Perry Rhodan)

I sat up and moaned. I looked with dismay at the hideous scars crisscrossing my belly. Nothing could be
done about this any more, although I would detest hearing curious questions about them.

Anyway, what surgeon could have removed the stitched evidence of the horrendous cuts in my body? It
was highly unlikely that a good surgeon was left on the face of the Earth. The atomic disaster had struck
mankind 69 years ago. The doctors who had finished their training must have died long ago, even if they
could have managed to save their lives by some lucky coincidence.

"My clothes!" I barked at the robot.

"Which ones, Master?"

"The ones I wore last."

"YouтАЩre still too weak, Master. The second phase of the recovery period is only just now beginning."

There was no point in refuting the logical objections of a superb machine and so I resigned myself to his
guidance.

With RicoтАЩs support I fumbled my way to the central switchboard and plopped down into the
comfortable swivel chair. There I went through the prescribed waiting period and the point-by-point
checkout.

The large observation panel showed all departments of my bombproof deep-sea shelter. Not even the
effects of an atomic war could be noticed down here.

The main energy-station had always been a little problem. Reactors #2 and #3 were idle and reactor #1
operated at 20% of its maximum output.

I switched on the undersea observation panel. The infrared sensors mounted on the outside of the sphere
gave a clear, grainless picture of my shelter on the bottom of the sea.

A huge quantity of mud had accumulated before the southern exit hatch. However the upper airlock was
unobstructed. I stepped up reactor #1 to full output to provide enough energy for the thrust-field
projectors.

The big machines began to hum for the first time in 69 years. The muffled noise from below disturbed my
ears but the mud deposited at the sphere began to move.

The concentrated pressure jets of 40,000 tons thrust per cubic meter easily cleaned away the muck.
Within a few minutes the southern airlock was completely cleared.

Subsequently I tried to establish contact with the little television satellite. The 6-foot sphere had circled
the Earth in a 2-hour orbit before the outbreak of the war. The excellent technical instruments permitted a
magnification that made man-size objects clearly visible.

I failed to get a response. The micro-brain inside the satellite didnтАЩt react.
"TEK-1 was shot down, Master," Rico stated blandly. "It happened 2 days after you were put to sleep.
A pursuit craft of unknown origin mistook our satellite for an American object."