"Russell, Eric Frank - Men, Martians And Machines" - читать интересную книгу автора (Russell Eric Frank)
"The professor is seeking a crew for his extra-solarian vessel, the Marathon. Jay Score and six of our technicians have volunteered to go along with me. We have been accepted and have received the necessary extra training during the term of your leave."
"It was a pleasure," put in Flettner, anxious to placate us for stealing the skipper.
"The Terrestrial Government," continued McNulty, flattered, "has approved the entire complement of my former command, the Venusian freighter Upskadaska City. Now it's up to you fellows. Those who may wish to stay with the Upskadaska City can leave this meeting and report for duty. Will those who prefer to accompany me please signify by raising a hand." Then his roving eye discovered the Martians and he hastily added, "Or a tentacle."
Sam Hignett promptly stuck up his brown mitt. "Captain, I'd rather stay with you."
He beat the rest of us by a fraction of a second. Funny thing, not a single one of us was really bursting to shoot around in Flettner's suicide-box. It was merely that we were too weak to refuse. Or maybe we stuck out our necks for the sake of seeing the look that came into McNulty's features.
"Thank you, men," said McNulty in the solemn sort of voice they use at burials. He swallowed hard, blew his nose. His gaze roamed over us almost lovingly, became suddenly abashed as it discovered one Martian figure flopped in a corner, all its limp tentacles sprawling negligently around.
"Why, Sug FarnЧ" he began.
Kli Yang, chief coach of the Red Planet bunch, chipped in quickly with "I put up two tentacles, Captain. One for myself and one for him. He is asleep. He deputed me to act on his behalf, to say yes, or say no, or sing, 'Pop Goes the Weasel' as required."
Everyone laughed. Sug Farn's utter and complete laziness had been a feature of life aboard the Upsydaisy. The skipper alone was unaware that nothing short of an urgent outside job or a game of chess could keep Sug Farn awake. Our laughter ended and the sleeper immediately filled in the silence with one of those eerie, high-pitched whistles that is the Martian version of a snore.
"All right," said McNulty, striving to keep a smile away from his mouth. "I want you to report aboard ship at dawn. We blast at ten ack emma G.M.T. I'll leave Jay Score to give you further information and answer any questions."
The Marathon was a real beauty, Flettner designed, government built, with fine lines halfway between those of a war cruiser and those of a light racing rocket. Indeed, she had space-navy fittings that were luxurious by comparison with what we'd had on the Upsydaisy. I liked her a lot. So did the rest.
Standing at the top of the telescopic metal gangway, I watched the last comers arrive. Jay Score went down, returned lugging his enormous case. He was allowed more weight in personal luggage than any three others. No wonder, for only one item among his belongings was a spare atomic engine, a lovely little piece of engineering coming to eighty pounds. In a way, this was his standby heart.
Four government experts came aboard in a bunch. I'd no idea of who they were or why they were going with us, but directed them to their private cabins. The last arrival was young Wilson, a fair-haired, moody lad of about nineteen. He'd had three boxes delivered in advance and now was trying to drag three more aboard.
"What's in those?" I demanded.
"Plates." He surveyed the ship with unconcealed distaste.
"Repair, dinner or dental?" I inquired.
"Photographic," he snapped without a glimmer of a smile.
"You the official picture man?"
"Yes."
"All right. Dump those boxes in mid-hold."
He scowled. "They are never dumped, dropped, chucked or slung. They are placed," he said. "Gently."
"You heard me!" I liked the kid's looks but not his surly attitude.
Putting down the boxes at the top of the gangway, and doing it with exaggerated care, he looked me over very slowly, his gaze travelling from feet to head and all the way down again. His lips were thin, his knuckles white.
Then he said, "And who might you be when you're outside your shirt?"
That got him right in his weak spot. I think that if I'd threatened to throw him for a loop he'd have had a try at giving me an orbit of my own. But he didn't intend to let me or anyone else pick on his precious boxes.
Favouring me with a glance that promised battle, murder and sudden death, he carried the boxes into mid-hold, taking them one at a time, tenderly, as if they were babies. That was the last I saw of him for a while. I had been hard on the kid but didn't realize it at the time.
A couple of the passengers were arguing in their harness just before we threw ourselves away. Part of my job is to inspect the strappings of novices and they kept at it while I was going over their belts and buckles.
"Say what you like," offered one, "but it works, doesn't it?"
"I know it does," snorted the other, showing irritation. "That's just it. I've been right through Flettner's crazy mathematics a thousand times, until my mind's dizzy with symbols. The logic is all right. It's unassailable. Nevertheless, the premise is completely cockeyed."
"So what? His first two ships reached the Jovian system simply by going zip! and zip! They did the round trip in less time than any ordinary rocketship takes to make up its mind to boost. Is that crazy?"
"It's blatantly nuts!" swore the objector, his blood pressure continuing to rise. "It's magic and it's nuts! Flettner says all astronomical estimates of distances can be scrapped and thrown into the ash-can because there's no such thing as speed inside a cosmos which itselfЧplasma and ether alikeЧis in a series of tremendous motions of infinite variability. He says you can't have speed or measurable velocity where there's nothing to which you can relate it except a fixed point which is purely imaginary and cannot possibly exist. He claims that we're obsessed by speeds and distances because our minds are conditioned by established relations inside our own one-cent solar system, but in the greater cosmos there are no limitations to which our inadequate yardstick can be applied."
"Me," I put in soothingly, "I've made my last will and testament."
He glared at me, then snapped to the other, "I still say it's looney."
"So's television and arguers," retorted his opponent, "but they both work."
McNulty came by the door at that moment, paused, said, "Seen to that lad Wilson yet?"
"NoЧI'll be there in one minute."
"Try and cool him down, will you. He looks as if he's in a blue funk."
Reaching Wilson's cabin, I found him sitting there with his harness on. He was dumb, glassy-eyed and worried stiff.
"Ever been on a spaceship before?"
"No," he growled.
"Well, don't let it bother you. I admit there are rare occasions when people go up in one piece and come down in several, but according to official statistics the roller coasters killed more last year."
"Do you think I'm scared?" he demanded, standing up so quickly that he startled me.
"Me? Oh, no!" I fumbled around for words I couldn't find. His bothered expression had vanished and he was looking rather hard. "See here," I said, speaking as man to man, "tell me what's eating you and I'll see if I can help."
"You can't help." Sitting down, he relaxed, became as moody as before. "I'm worrying about my plates."
"What plates?"
"Those photographic ones I brought on board, of course."
"Heck, they'll be safe enough. Besides, what good will worrying do?"
"Plenty," he said. "When at first I let 'em go on trust I had them walloped to powder in two successive accidents. Then I developed the habit of worrying about them. I was doing a really good job of worrying just before that Century Express smashup and I lost only two, both un-exposed. I worried all but six of my outfit through the big Naples quake. So it pays me, see? Leave me alone and let me get on with my job," he invited. Upon which he leaned backward, tightened his harness and calmly resumed his worrying.
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