"John Rankine - Dag Fletcher 1 - The Ring of Garamas" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankine John)

Ring of Garamas
by John Rankine



Golden Apple, Wallasey - Science Fiction




Golden Apple, Wallasey
www.goldenapple.u-net.com

Copyright (C)1971 by John Rankine
Chapter One
Fletcher reckoned it was none of his business. Sitting with his back to a plushy red reredos, he watched
the developing scene through a long gilt mirror at the closed end of his alcove.

Dog eating dog. Let them get on with it.

He had never liked the Garamasians. Maybe only men like himself, who were actively engaged on a stint
with the Galaxy's peacekeeping force, could see the folly of playing both ends against the middle. For the
rest, Garamas was working a very smart operation; keeping out of commitment and running a high level
economy at the expense of both sides.

Plumb on the frontiers of I.G.O. space, Garamas was courted by both the Inter Galactic Organization
and the Outer Galactic Alliance. So far, its government had refused to come off the fence. I.G.O.,
respecting the processes of law, used diplomacy and trade as levers to keep her in their sphere of
influence. O.G.A. suited the Garamasian national character which leaned to the military-style junta
governments of that group. Historically, Garamas belonged with Lados, which although not one of the
hard-core O.G.A. planets, had satellite status and binding treaty obligations.

Something was definitely in the wind. O.G.A. could be moving to a definitive trial of strength and
Garamas was a natural spring board into I.G.O. space.

Secret police in any culture had a family look; but Fletcher saw the four who had moved quickly into the
bistro as prototypes of the genre. Garamasian physical architecture was right for the illusion. They were
tall, hitting the two-metre mark, narrow and high shouldered with long arms and legs. Heads balanced
symmetrically on short necks, were almost perfect spheres. Eyes, which were lidless, seemed flat set, as
though pasted on; black disks of polished obsidian. Head to foot in black, with calf-high, laced boots and
yellow arm bands carrying the three intertwined rings of Garamas, they looked like vultures.

Except for the piped music, which was currently set for a sentimental ballad, out of key with events, the
whole place had gone quiet. Two policemen had stationed themselves expertly where no one could pass.
The other two were taking it slowly, one on either side of the aisle checking out the clientele.

Fletcher's own face was set bottom right of the composition like an inset on a scanner. It was a long,
Indo-European job, heavily tanned from the last mission, left eyebrow given a quizzical twist by a thin,
radiation burn. A hard face, with grey eyes that gave nothing away. His expression did not change, when
pneumatic pressure built up against the back of his legs and a long slim hand appeared on the table top