"Eric Frank Russell - Allamagoosa" - читать интересную книгу автора (Russell Eric Frank)

Allamagoosa

by Eric Frank Russell

It was a long time since the Bustler had been so silent. She lay in the Sirian spaceport, her tubes cold,
her shell particle-scarred, her air that of a long-distance runner exhausted at the end of a marathon. There
was good reason for this: she had returned from a lengthy trip by no means devoid of troubles.

Now, in port, well-deserved rest had been gained if only temporarily. Peace, sweet peace. No more
bothers, no more crises, no more major upsets, no more dire predicaments such as crop up in free flight
at least twice a day. Just peace.

Hah!

Captain McNaught reposed in his cabin, feet up on desk, and enjoyed the relaxation to the utmost. The
engines were dead, their hellish pounding absent for the first time in months. Out there in the big city, four
hundred of his crew were making whoopee under a brilliant sun. This evening, when First Officer
Gregory returned to take charge, he was going to go into the fragrant twilight and make the rounds of
neon-lit civilization.

That was the beauty of making landfall at long last. Men could give way to themselves, blow off surplus
steam, each according to his fashion. No duties, no worries, no dangers, no responsibilities in spaceport.
A haven of safety and comfort for tired rovers.

Again, hah!

Burman, the chief radio officer, entered the cabin. He was one of the half-dozen remaining on duty and
bore the expression of a man who can think of twenty better things to do.

"Relayed signal just come in, sir." Handing the paper across, he waited for the other to look at it and
perhaps dictate a reply.

Taking the sheet, McNaught removed the feet from his desk, sat erect, and read the message aloud.

Terran Headquarters to Bustler. Remain Siriport pending further orders. Rear Admiral Vane W.
Cassidy due there seventeenth. Feldman. Navy Op. Command, Sirisec.

He looked up, all happiness gone from his leathery features, and groaned.

"Something wrong?" asked Burman, vaguely alarmed.

McNaught pointed at three thin books on his desk. "The middle one. Page twenty."

Leafing through it, Burman found an item that said: Vane W. Cassidy, R-Ad. Head Inspector Ships and
Stores.

Burman swallowed hard. "Does that meanтАФ?"

"Yes, it does," said McNaught without pleasure. "Back to training-college and all its rigmarole. Paint and
soap, spit and polish." He put on an officious expression, adopted a voice to match it. "Captain, you have