"Eric Frank Russel - Mechanistria" - читать интересную книгу автора (Russell Eric Frank)

head. I tripped and went down in the nick of time, felt its bear-trap hand swipe across my top hairs.
There was something ghastly about the silence of this battle. Our opponents made no sound in
any way vocal. Except for our own oaths and grunts nothing could be heard but the smooth purring
of hidden works, the swish of metal tentacles, the clank of jointed arms, the thud of massive metal
feet.
My opponent snatched downward as I dropped, but I rolled as never IтАЩd rolled before, dodged
both its grab and its pounding legs. My needle-ray spiked at its flat under-side and did no good
whatsoever. Twisting clear, I sprang to my feet, glanced rightward, saw the computatorтАЩs body
lying in one place and his brains in another. I felt sick. As I swung to watch the coffin, the Pullman
thing-which had taken no part up to then-aimed its disc at me and bathed me from head to feet in a
powerful beam of pale-green light. Theoretically, as I discovered later on, that beam should have
jammed my radio animation and made me stiffer than that stiff they call Rigor Mortis. But since I
had non-mechanical animation of my very own the device remained nothing more than a pale-green
light.
The globes were by far the speediest of all this crazy assortment of super-gadgets and it was a
globe that got me in the end. My coffin-shaped opponent lumbered clumsily around to have another
go at me, another coffin galloped toward me from the opposite side, and as I tried to divide my
attention between both, a globe nipped in from behind and laid me out.
At one moment my ray was pouring its thin blade into the body of the nearest oncomer while
over its sights I had a view of McNulty and the giraffe retreating far behind my attackerтАЩs back,
then - thunk! - the universe exploded in my head, I let go my weapon and collapsed.
MeNulty called the roll. Tattered and weary, but his plump little form still in one piece, he stood
with his shoulders squared back and looked us over. Jay Score posed. beside him, big and solid as
ever, his stallite chest sticking out through the shreds of his uniform, but his eyes glittering with the
old, everlasting fires.
тАЬAmbrose:тАЭ
тАЬHere, sir.тАЭ
тАЬArmstrong.тАЭ
тАЬHere, sir.тАЭ
тАЬBailey.тАЭ

No reply. The skipper glanced up, frowning.
тАЬBailey. Does anyone know what has happened to Chief Steward Bailey?тАЭ
Somebody said, тАЬHavenтАЩt seen him since just before the fight on the ship, sir.тАЭ Nobody added to
this information.
 тАЬHumph!тАЭ McNultyтАЩs frown deepened. He marked his list and continued. I was puzzled as I
looked over our mauled but still tough gang. Something missing, something missing. But either the
skipper hadnтАЩt sensed it or else he was ignoring it, for he proceeded methodically with his task.
тАЬBarker, Bannister, Blaine, Brennand . . . .тАЭ Again his eyes lifted as there came no response.
тАЬBrennand was in our dogbox,тАЭ I reminded. тАЬI donтАЩt know what happened to him:тАЭ
тАЬYou canтАЩt say definitely that heтАЩs dead?тАЭ
тАЬNo, sir.тАЩ
тАЬBrennand never came out of that machine,тАЭ offered a voice. It was the gentleman with the
spanner. He stood beside the eyebrow-waggling Steve Gregory, and his face looked like a half-
eaten orange, but still he was attached to his hunk of iron. Maybe the machines had let him keep it
because theyтАЩd mistaken it for part of his arm. He said, тАЬI was the last to go under in that free-for-
all. Brennand wasnтАЩt taking part. Neither was Wilson.тАЭ
McNulty registered a touch of woe; Jay Score showed a little interest, The skipper made two
marks on his list and carried on. It wasnтАЩt until he reached the letter K that I discovered the missing
factor nagging my subconscious.