"Lensman 07 - Masters of the Vortex (The Vortex Blaster)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith E. E. Doc)

'I'm afraid to take chances with you until we find out who's who and what's what around here,' the young commander explained. 'The Lensmen will be here in the morning, with half
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an army, so I think you'd better spend the rest of the night here, don't you?'
'Protective custody, eh?' Cloud grinned. 'I've never been arrested in such a polite way before, but it's QX with me. You, too, I take it?'
'Us, too, decidedly," Ryder assented. 'This is a very nice jail-house, especially in comparison with where we've ...'
'I'll say so!" Jackie broke in, giggling almost hysterically. 'I never thought I'd be tickled to death at getting arrested, but I am!'
Lensmen came, and companies of Patrolmen equipped in various fashions, but it was several weeks before the situation was completely clarified. Then Ellington-Councillor Ellington, the Unattached Lensman in charge of all Narcotics-called the three into the office.
"How about Graves and Fairchild?' Cloud demanded before the councillor could speak.
'Both dead,' Ellington said. 'Graves was shot down just as he took off, but he blasted Fairchild first, just as he intimated he would. There wasn't enough of Fairchild left for positive identification, but it couldn't very well have been anyone else. Nobody left alive seems to know much of anything of the real scope of the thing, so we can release you three now. Thanks, from me as well as the Patrol. There is some talk that you two youngsters have been contemplating a honeymoon out Chick-ladoria way?'
'Oh, no, sir-that is ..." Both spoke at once. 'That was just talk, sir.'
'I realize that the report may have been exaggerated, or premature, or both. However, not as a reward, but simply in appreciation, the Patrol would be very glad to have you as its guests throughout such a trip-all expenses-if you like.'
They liked.
'Thank you. Lieutenant, please take Miss Cochran and Mr. Ryder to the disbursing office. Dr. Cloud, the Patrol will take cognizance of what you have done. In the meantime, however, I would like to say that in uncovering this thing you have been of immense assistance to us.'
'Nothing much sir, I'm afraid. I shudder to think of what's coming. If zwilniks can grow Trenconian broadleaf anywhere ...'
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'Not at all, not at all,' Ellington interrupted. 'If such an entirely unsuspected firm as Tellurian Pharmaceuticals, with all their elaborate preparations and precautions, could not do much more than start, it is highly improbable that any other attempt will be a success. You have given us a very potent weapon against zwil-nik operations-not only thionite, but heroin, ladolian, nitrolabe, and the rest.'
'What weapon?" Cloud was puzzled.
'Statistical analysis and correlation of apparently unrelated indices.'
'But they've been used for years!'
'Not the way you used them, my friend. Thus, while we cannot count upon any more such extraordinary help as you gave us, we should not need any. Can I give you a lift back to Tellus?'
'I don't think so, thanks. My stuff is en route now. I'll have to blow out this vortex anyway. Not that I think there's anything unusual about it-those were undoubtedly murders, not vortex casualties at all-but for the record. Also, since I can't do any more exinguishing until my arm finishes itself up, I may as well stay here and keep on practising.'
'Practising? Practising what?'
'Gun-slinging-the lightning draw. I intend to get at least a lunch while the next pirate who pulls a DeLameter on me is getting a square meal.'
And Councillor Ellington conferred with another Gray Lens-man; one who was not even vaguely humanoid.
'Did you take him apart?'
'Practically cell by cell.'
'What do you think the chances are of finding and developing another like him?'
'With a quarter of a million Lensmen working on it now, and the number doubling every day, and with a hundred thousand million planets, with almost that many different cultures, it is my considered opinion that it is merely a matter of time.'
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5: The Boneheads
Since becoming the Vortex Blaster, Neal Cloud lived alone. Whenever he decently could, he traveled alone and worked alone. He was alone now, hurtling through a barren region of space toward Rift Seventy One and the vortex next upon his list. In the interests of solitude, convenience, and efficiency he was now driving a scout-class ship which had been converted to one-man and automatic operation. In one hold was his vortex blasting flitter; in the others his duodec bombs and other supplies.
During such periods of inaction as this, he was wont to think flagellantly of Jo and the three kids; especially of Jo. Now, however, and much to his surprise and chagrin, the pictures which had been so vividly clear were beginning to fade. Unless he concentrated consciously, his thoughts strayed elsewhere: to the last meeting of the Society; to the new speculations as to the why and how of supernovae; to food; to bowling-maybe he'd better start that again, to see if he couldn't make his hook roll smoothly into the one-two pocket instead of getting so many seven-ten splits. Back to food-for the first time in the Vortex Blaster's career he was really hungry.
Which buttons would he push for supper? Steak and Venerian mushrooms would be mighty good. So would fried ham and eggs, or high-pressured gameliope ...
An alarm bell jangled, rupturing the silence; a warm-blooded oxygen-breather's distress call, pitifully weak, was coming in. It would have to be weak, Cloud reflected, as he tuned it in as sharply as he could; he was a good eighty-five parsecs-at least an hour at maximum blast-away from the nearest charted traffic lane. It was getting stronger. It hadn't just started, then; he had just gotten into its range. He acknowledged, swung his little ship's needle nose into the line and slammed on full drive. He had not gone far on the new course however, when a tiny but brilliant flash of light showed on his plate and the distress-call stopped. Whatever had occurred was history.
Cloud had to investigate, of course. Both written and unwritten laws are adamant that every call must be heeded by any warm-blooded oxygen-breather receiving it, of whatever race
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or class or tonnage or upon whatever mission bound. He broadcast call after call of his own. No reply. He was probably the only being in space who had been within range.
Still driving at max, he went to the rack and pulled down a chart. He had never been in on a space emergency before, but he knew the routine. No use to investigate the wreckage; the brilliance of the flare was evidence enough 'that the vessel and everything near it had ceased to exist. It was lifeboats he was after. They were supposed to stick around to be rescued, but out here they wouldn't. They'd have to head for the nearest planet, to be sure of air. Air was far more important than either food or water; and lifeboats, by the very nature of things, could not carry enough air.
Thus he steered more toward the nearest T-T (Tellus-Type) planet than towards the scene of disaster. He put his communicators, both sending and receiving, on automatic, then sat down at the detector panel. There might not be anything on the visuals or the audio. There had been many cases of boats, jammed with women and children, being launched into space with no one aboard able to operate even a communicator. If any lifeboats had gotten away from the catastrophe, his detectors would find them.
There was one; one only. It was close to the planet, almost into atmosphere. Cloud aimed a solid communicator beam. Still no answer. Either the boat's communicator was smashed or nobody aboard could run it. He'd have to follow them down to the ground.
But what was that? Another boat on the plate? Not a lifeboat-too big-but not big enough to be a ship. Coming out from the planet, apparently ... to rescue? No-what the hell? The lug was beaming the lifeboat!
'Let's go, you sheet-iron lummox!' the Blaster yelled aloud, kicking in his every remaining dyne of drive. Then, very shortly, his plate came suddenly to life. To semi-life, rather, for the video was blurred and blotchy; the audio full of breaks and noise. The lifeboat's pilot was a Chickladorian; characteristically pink except for red-matted hair and red-streamed face. He was in bad shape.
'Whoever it is that's been trying to raise me, snap it up!' the pink man said in 'SpaceaP, the lingua franca of deep space. 'I couldn't answer until I faked up this jury rig. The ape's
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aboard and he means business. I'm going to black out, I think, but I've undogged the locks. Take over, pal!'
The picture blurred, vanished. The voice stopped. Cloud swore, viciously.
The planet Dhil and its enormous satellite lune are almost twin worlds, revolving around their common center of gravity and traversing as one the second orbit of their sun. In the third orbit revolves Nhal, a planet strikingly similar to Dhil in every respect of gravity, atmosphere, and climate. Thus Dhilians and Nhalians are, to all intents and purposes, identical.*
The two races had been at war with each other, most of the time, for centuries; and practically all of that warfare had been waged upon luckless Lune. Each race was well advanced in science. Each had atomic power, offensive beams, and defensive screens. Neither had any degree of inertialessness. Neither had ever heard of Civilization or of Boskonia.
At this particular time peace existed, but only on the surface. Any discovery or development giving either side an advantage would rekindle the conflagration without hesitation or warning.
Such was the condition obtaining when Darjeeb of Nhal blasted his little space-ship upward from Lune. He was glowing with pride of accomplishment, suffused with self-esteem. Not only had he touched off an inextinguishable atomic flame exactly where it would do most good, but also, as a crowning achievement, he had captured Luda of Dhil. Luda herself; the coldest, hardest, most efficient Minister of War that Dhil had ever had!