"Eric Frank Russell - Mechanical Mice2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Russell Eric Frank)

It ignored me completely. Somehow, I felt that it was re┬мsponding entirely to some
mysterious call from the shuttle Burman had captured.
I swiped desperately, missed it again, though I swear I missed by no more than a millimeter.
Something whipped through the holes in the door, fled past me into the big machine. Dimly, I
heard traps opening and closing and be┬мyond all other sounds that steady, persistent
tick-tick-tick. Another furious blow that accomplished no more than to dent the floor and jar
my arm to the shoulder.
Unexpectedly, unbelievably, the golden curse ceased its insane gyrations on the floor and
around the table. With a hard click, and a whir much louder than before, it raced easily up
one leg of the table and reached the top.
Burman left his sanctuary in one jump. He was still cling┬мing to the shuttle. I'd never seen his
face so white.
"The machine!" he said, hoarsely. "Bash it to hell!"
Thunk! went the machine. A trap gaped, released another demon with a scalpel. Bzz-z-z! a
third shot in through the holes in the door. Four shuttles skimmed through behind it, made for
the machine, reached it safely. A fifth came through more slowly. It was dragging an
automobile valve spring. I kicked the thing against the wall even as I struck a vain blow at
one with a scalpel.
With another jump, Burman cleared an attacker. A second sheared off the toe of his right
shoe as he landed. Again he reached the table from which his first toe had departed. All
three things with scalpels made for the table with a reckless vim that was frightening.
"Drop that damned shuttle," I yelled.
He didn't drop it. As the fighting trio whirred up the legs, he flung the shuttle with all his might
at the coffin that had given it birth. It struck, dented the casing, fell to the floor. Burman was
off the table again. The thrown shuttle lay bat┬мtered and noiseless, its small motive wheels
stilled.
The armed contraptions scooting around the table seemed to change their purpose
coincidently with the captured shuttle's smashing. Together, they dived off the table, sped
through the holes in the door. A fourth came out of the machine, escorting two shuttles, and
those too vanished be┬мyond the door. A second or two later, a new thing different from the
rest, came in through one of the holes. It was long, round-bodied, snub-nosed, about half the
length of a police-man's nightstick, had six wheels beneath, and a double row of peculiar
serrations in front. It almost sauntered across the room while we watched it fascinatedly. I
saw the serrations jerk and shift when it climbed the lowered trap into the machine. They
were midget caterpillar tracks!
Burman had had enough. He made up his mind. Finding the steel pipe, he gripped it firmly,
approached the coffin. Its lenses seemed to leer at him as he stood before it. Twelve years
of intensive work to be destroyed at a blow. Endless days and nights of effort to be undone
at one stroke. But Burman was past caring. With a ferocious swing he demolished the
glass, with a fierce thrust he shattered the assembly of wheels and cogs behind.
The coffin shuddered and slid beneath his increasingly an┬мgry blows. Trapdoors dropped
open, spilled out lifeless samples of the thing's metallic brood. Grindings and raspings
came from the accursed object while Burman battered it to pieces. Then it was silent, a
shapeless, useless mass of twisted and broken parts.
I picked up the dented shape of the object that had sauntered in. It was heavy, astonishingly
heavy, and even after partial destruction its workmanship looked wonderful. It had a tiny,
almost unnoticeable eye in front, but the miniature lens was cracked. Had it returned for
repairs and overhaul?
"That," said Burman, breathing audibly, "is that!"
I opened the door to see if the noise had attracted atten┬мtion. It hadn't. There was a lifeless