"Piper, H Beam - Fuzzy 1 - little Fuzzy1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Piper H Beam)

crazy; they weren't to be wasted in fits of childish pique. Then he
reflected that no cartridge fired at a target is really wasted, and that
he hadn't done any shooting recently. Stooping again, he picked up
another stone and tossed it a foot short and to the left of the prawn.
As soon as it was out of his fingers, his hand went for the butt of
the long automatic. It was out and the safety off before the flint
landed; as the prawn fled, he fired from the hip. The quasi-
crustacean disintegrated. He nodded pleasantly.

"0l' man Holloway's still hitting things he shoots at."

Was a time, not so long ago, when he took his abilities for granted.
Now he was getting old enough to have to verify them. He thumbed
on the safety and holstered the pistol, then picked up the glove and
put it on again.

Never saw so blasted many land-prawns as this summer. They'd
been bad last year, but nothing like this. Even the oldtimers who'd
been on Zarathustra since the first colonization said so. There'd be
some simple explanation, of course; something that would amaze
him at his own obtuseness for not having seen it at once. Maybe
the ab normally dry weather had something to do with it. Or
increase of something they ate, or decrease of natural enemies.

He'd heard that land-prawns had no natural enemies; he ques
tioned that. Something killed them. He's seen crushed prawn
shells, some of them close to his camp. Maybe stamped on by
something with hoofs, and then picked clean by insects. He'd ask
Ben Rainsford; Ben ought to know.

Half an hour later, the scanner gave him another interruption
pattern. He laid it aside and took up the small vibrohammer. This
time it was a large bean, light pink in color. He separated it from its
matrix of flint and rubbed it, and instantly it began glowing.

"Ahhh! This is something like it, now!"

He rubbed harder; warmed further on his pipe bowl, it fairly blazed.
Better than a thousand sols, he told himself. Good color, too.
Getting his gloves off, he drew out the little leather bag from
underhis shirt, loosening the drawstrings by which it hung around
his neck. There were a dozen and a half stones inside, all bright as
live coals. He looked at them for a moment, and dropped the new
sunstone in among them, chuckling happily.

Victor Grego, listening to his own recorded voice, rubbed the sun-
stone on his left finger with the heel of his right palm and watched it
brighten. There was, he noticed, a boastful ring to his voice--not
the suave, unemphatic tone considered proper on a message-
tape. Well, if anybody wondered why, when they played that tape