"Piper, H Beam - Lord Kalvan Of Otherwhen V2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Piper H Beam)
УAn example for all of us!Ф The others spoke in turn; a few tried to make speeches. Chartiphon said УFight. What else.Ф
УI am a priest of Dralm,Ф Xentos said, Уand Dralm is a god of peace, but I say, fight with DralmТs blessing. Submission to evil men is the worst of all sins.Ф
УRylla,Ф her father said.
УBetter die in armor than live in chains,Ф she replied. УWhen the time comes, I will be in armor with the rest of you.Ф
Her father nodded. УI expected no less from any of you.Ф He rose, and all with him. УI thank you. At sunset we will dine together; until then servants will attend you. Now, if you please, leave me with my daughter. Chartiphon, you and Xentos stay.Ф
Chairs scraped and feet scuffed as they went out. The closing door cut off the murmur of voices. Chartiphon had begun to fill his stubby pipe.
УI know thereТs no use looking to Balthar of Beshta,Ф Rylla said, Уbut wouldnТt Sarrask of Sask aid us? WeТre better neighbors to him than Gormoth would be.Ф
УSarrask of SaskТs a fool,Ф Chartiphon said shortly. УHe doesnТt know that once Gormoth has Hostigos, his turn will come next.Ф
УHe knows that,Ф Xentos differed. УHeТll try to strike before Gormoth does, or catch Gormoth battered from having fought us. But even if he wanted to help us, he dares not. Even King Kaiphranos dares not aid those whom StyphonТs House would destroy.Ф
УThey want that land in Wolf Valley, for a temple-farm,Ф she considered. УI know that would be bad, but . . .Ф
УToo late,Ф Xentos told her. УThey have made a compact with Gormoth, to furnish him fireseed and money to hire mercenaries, and when he has conquered Hostigos he will give them the land.Ф He paused and added, УAnd it was on my advice, Prince, that you refused them.Ф
УIТd have refused against your advice, Xentos,Ф her father said. УLong ago I vowed that StyphonТs House should never come into Hostigos while I lived, and by Dralm and by Galzar neither shall they! They come into a princedom, they build a temple, they make temple-farms and slaves of everybody on them. They tax the Prince, and make him tax the people, till nobody has anything left. Look at that temple-farm in Sevenhills Valley!Ф
УYes, youТd hardly believe it,Ф Chartiphon said. УWhy, they even make the peasants for miles around cart their manure in, till they have none left for their own fields. Dralm only knows what they do with it.Ф He puffed at his pipe. УI wonder why they want Sevenhills Valley.Ф
УThereТs something in the ground there that makes the water of those springs taste and smell badly,Ф her father said.
УSulfur,Ф said Xentos, УBut why do they want sulfur?Ф
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CORPORAL Calvin Morrison, Pennsylvania State Police, squatted in the brush at the edge of the old field and looked across the small brook at the farmhouse two hundred yards away. It was scabrous with peeling yellow paint, and festooned with a sagging porch-roof. A few white chickens pecked uninterestedly in the littered barnyard; there was no other sign of life, but he knew that there was a man inside. A man with a rifle, who would use it; a man who had murdered once, broken jail, would murder again.
He looked at his watch; the minute-hand was squarely on the nine. Jack French and Steve Kovac would be starting down on the road above, where they had left the car. He rose, unsnapping the retaining-strap of his holster.
УWatch that middle upstairs window,Ф he said. УIТm starting now.Ф
УIТm watching it.Ф Behind him, a rifle-action clattered softly as a cartridge went into the chamber. УLuck.Ф He started forward across the seedling-dotted field. He was scared, as scared as he had been the first time, back in Т51, in Korea, but there was nothing he could do about that. He just told his legs to keep moving, knowing that in a few moments he wouldnТt have time to be scared.
He was within a few feet of the little brook, his hand close to the butt of the Colt, when it happened.
There was a blinding flash, followed by a momentТs darkness. He thought heТd been shot; by pure reflex, the .38-special was in his hand. Then, all around him, a flickering iridescence of many colors glowed, a perfect hemisphere fifteen feet high and thirty across, and in front of him was an oval desk with an instrument-panel over it, and a swivel-chair from which a man was rising. Young, well-built; a white man but, he was sure, not an American. He wore loose green trousers and black ankle-boots and a pale green shirt. There was a shoulder holster under his left arm, and a weapon in his right hand.
He was sure it was a weapon, though it looked more like an electric soldering-iron, with two slender rods instead of a barrel, joined, at what should be the muzzle, by a blue ceramic or plastic knob. It was probably something that made his own Colt Official Police look like a kidТs cap-pistol, and it was coming up fast to line on him.
He fired, held the trigger back to keep the hammer down on the fired chamber, and flung himself to one side, coming down on his left hand and left hip, on a smooth, polished floor. Something, probably the chair, fell with a crash. He rolled, and kept on rolling until he was out of the nacreous dome of light and bumped hard against something. For a moment he lay still, then rose to his feet, letting out the trigger of the Colt.
He began wondering how he was going to explain this. УWhile approaching the house,Ф he began, aloud and in a formal tone, УI was intercepted by a flying saucer landing in front of me, the operator of which threatened me with a ray-pistol. I defended myself with my revolver, firing one round.Ф
No. That wouldnТt do at all. He looked at the brook again, and began to suspect that there might be nobody to explain to. Swinging out the cylinder of his Colt, he replaced the fired round. Then he decided to junk the regulation about carrying the hammer on an empty chamber, and put in another one.
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VERKAN Vall watched the landscape outside the almost-invisible shimmer of the transposition-field; now he was in the forests of the Fifth Level. The mountains, of course, were always the same, but the woods around flickered and shifted. There was a great deal of randomness about which tree grew where, from time-line to time-line. Now and then he would catch fleeting glimpses of open country, and the buildings and airport installations of his own people. The red light overhead went off and on, a buzzer sounding each time. The conveyer dome became a solid iridescence, and then a mesh of cold inert metal. The red light turned green. He picked up a sigma-ray needler from the desk in front of him and bolstered it. As he did, the door slid open and two men in Paratime Police green, a lieutenant and a patrolman, entered. When they saw him, they relaxed, bolstering their own weapons.
УHello, ChiefТs Assistant,Ф the lieutenant said. УDidnТt pick anything up, did you?Ф
In theory, the Ghaldron-Hesthor transposition-field was impenetrable; in practice, especially when two paratemporal vehicles going in opposite УdirectionsФ interpenetrated, the field would weaken briefly, and external objects, sometimes alive and hostile, would intrude. That was why paratimers kept weapons ready at hand, and why conveyers were checked immediately upon materializing. It was also why some paratimers didnТt make it home.
УNot this trip. Is my rocket ready?Ф
УYes, sir. Be a little delay about an aircar for the rocket-port.Ф The patrolman had begun to take the transposition record-tapes out of the cabinet. УTheyТll call you when itТs ready.Ф
He and the lieutenant strolled out into the noise and colorful confusion of the conveyor-head rotunda. He got out his cigarette case and offered it; the lieutenant flicked his lighter. They had only taken a few puffs when another conveyer quietly materialized in a vacant circle a little to their left.
A couple of Paracops strolled over as the door opened, drawing their needlers, and peeped inside. Immediately, one backed away, snatching the hand-phone of his belt radio and speaking quickly into it. The other went inside. Throwing away their cigarettes, he and the lieutenant hastened to the conveyer.
Inside, the chair at the desk was overturned. A Paracop lay on the floor, his needler a few inches from his out-flung hand. His tunic was off and his shirt, pale green, was darkened by blood. The lieutenant, without touching him, bent over him.
УStill alive,Ф he said. УBullet or sword-thrust?Ф
УBullet. I smell nitro powder.Ф Then he saw the hat lying on the floor, and stepped around the fallen man. Two men were entering with an antigrav stretcher; they got the wounded man onto it and floated him out. УLook at this, Lieutenant.Ф
The lieutenant looked at the hatЧgray felt, wide-brimmed, the crown peaked by four indentations.
УFourth Level,Ф he said. УEuropo-American, Hispano-Colombian Subsector.Ф
He picked up the hat and glanced inside. The lieutenant was right. The sweatband was stamped in golden Roman-alphabet letters, JOHN B. STETSON COMPANY. PHILADELPHIA, PA., and, hand-inked, Cpl. Calvin Morrison, Pennsylvania State Police, and a number.
УI know that crowd,Ф the lieutenant said. УGood men, every bit as good as ours.Ф
УOne was a split second better than one of ours.Ф He got out his cigarette case. УLieutenant, this is going to be a real badie. This pickupТs going to be missed, and the people whoТll miss him will be one of the ten best constabulary organizations in the world, on their time-line. We wonТt satisfy them with the kind of lame-brained explanations that usually get by in that sector. And weТll have to find out where he emerged, and what heТs doing. A man who can beat a Paracop to the draw after being sucked into a conveyer wonТt just sink into obscurity on any time-line. By the time we get to him, heТll be kicking up a small fuss.Ф
УI hope he got dragged out of his own Subsector. Suppose he comes out on a next-door time-line, and reports to his police post, where a duplicate of himself, with duplicate fingerprints, is on duty.Ф
УYes. WouldnТt that be dandy, now?Ф He lit a cigarette. УWhen the aircar comes, send it back. IТm going over the photo-records myself. Have the rocket held; IТll need it in a few hours. IТm making this case my own personal baby.Ф
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CALVIN Morrison dangled his black-booted legs over the edge of the low cliff and wished, again, that he hadnТt lost his hat. He knew exactly where he wasЧhe was right at the same place he had been, sitting on the little cliff above the road where he and Larry Stacey and Jack French and Steve Kovac had left the car, only there was no road there now, and never had been one. There was a hemlock, four feet thick at the butt, growing where the farmhouse should have been, and no trace of the stonework of the foundations of house or barn. But the really permanent features, like the Bald Eagles to the north and Nittany Mountain to the south, were exactly as they should be.
That flash and momentary darkness could have been subjective; put that in the unproven column. He was sure the strangely beautiful dome of shimmering light had been real, and so had the desk and the instrument panel, and the man with the odd weapon. And there was nothing at all subjective about all this virgin timber where farmlands should have been. So he puffed slowly on his pipe and tried to remember and to analyze what had happened to him.
He hadnТt been shot and taken to a hospital where he was now lying delirious, he was sure of that. This wasnТt delirium. Nor did he consider for an instant questioning either his sanity or his senses, nor did he indulge in dirty language like УincredibleФ or Уimpossible.Ф ExtraordinaryЧnow there was a good word. He was quite sure that something extraordinary had happened to him. It seemed to break into two partsЧone, blundering into that dome of pearly light, what had happened inside of it, and rolling out of it; and two, this same-but-different place in which he now found himself.
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