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

'Ten dead,' the intercom blatted in reply. 'Otherwise QX.' 'Fuse the panels?' 'Natch.' 'Let's go!'
They went. Their vessel flashed away. The passengers rushed to their staterooms. Then:
'Doctor Cloud!' came from the speaker. 'Doctor Neal Cloud! Control room calling Doctor Cloud!' 'Cloud speaking.'
'Report to the control room, please." ,
'Oh-excuse me-I didn't know you were wounded,' the officer apologized as he saw the bandaged stump and the white, sweating face. 'You'd better go to bed.' 'Doing nothing wouldn't help. What did you want me for?' 'Do you know anything about communicators?' 'A little-what a nucleonics man has to know.' 'Good. They killed all our communications officers and blasted the panels, even in the lifeboats. You can't do much with your left hand, of course, but you may be able to boss the job of rigging up a spare.'
'I can do more than you think-I'm left-handed. Give me a couple of technicians and I'll see what we can do."
They set to work, but before they could accomplish anything a cruiser drove up, flashing its identification as a warship of the Galactic Patrol.
'We picked up the partial call you got off," its young commander said, briskly. 'With that and the plotted center of interference we didn't lose any time: Let's make this snappy.' He was itching to be off after the marauder, but he could not leave until he had ascertained the facts and had been given clearance. 'You aren't hurt much-don't need to call a tug, do you?' 'No,' replied the liner's senior surviving officer. 'QX,' and a quick investigation followed. 'Anybody who ships stuff like that open mail ought to lose it, but it's tough on innocent bystanders. Anything else I can do for you?'
'Not unless you can lend us some officers, particularly navigators and communications officers.'
'Sorry, but we're short there ourselves-four of my best are in sick-bay. Sign this clearance, please, and I'll get on that fellow's tail. I'll send your copy of my report to your head office. Clear ether!'
The cruiser shot away. Temporary repairs were made and the
liner, with Cloud and a couple of electronics technicians as
communications officers, finished the voyage to Dekanore III
without more interruption.
The Vortex Blaster was met at the dock by Works Manager
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Graves himself. The fat man was effusively sorry that Cloud had lost an arm, but assured him that the accident wouldn't lay him up very long. He, Graves, would get a Posenian surgeon over here so fast that...
If the manager was taken aback to learn that Cloud had already had a Phillips treatment, he did not show it. He escorted the specialist to Deka's best hotel, where he introduced him largely and volubly. Graves took him to supper. Graves took him to a theater and showed him the town. Graves told the hotel management to give the scientist the best rooms and the best valet they had, and that Cloud was not to be allowed to spend any of his own money. All of his activities, whatever their nature, purpose, or extent, were to be charged to Tellurian Pharmaceuticals, Inc. Graves was a grand guy.
Cloud broke loose, finally, and went to the dock to see about getting his flitter.
It had not been unloaded. There would be a slight delay, he was informed, because of the insurance inspections necessitated by the damage-and Cloud had not known that there had been any! When he had learned what had been done to his little ship he swore bitterly and sought out the liner's senior officer. 'Why didn't you tell me we got holed?" he demanded. 'Why, I don't know ... just that you didn't ask, is all, I guess. I don't suppose it occurred to anybody-I know it didn't me- that you might be interested.'
And that was, Cloud knew, strictly true. Passengers were not informed of such occurrences. He had been enough of an officer so that he could have learned anything he wished; but not enough of one to have been informed of such matters as routine. Nor was it surprising that it had not come up in conversation. Damage to cargo meant nothing whatever to the liner's overworked officers, standing double watches; a couple of easily-patched holes in the hull were not worth mentioning. From their standpoint the only damage was done to the communicators, and Cloud himself had set them to rights. This delay was his own fault as much as anybody else's. Yes, more.
'You won't lose anything, though,' the officer said, helpfully. 'Everything's covered, you know.'
'It isn't the money I'm yowling about-it's the time. That apparatus can't be duplicated anywhere except on Tellus, and even there it's all special-order stuff. OH DAMN!' and Cloud
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strode away toward his hotel.
During the following days TPI entertained him royally. Not insistently-Graves was an expert in such matters-but simply by giving him the keys to the planet. He could do anything he pleased. He could have all the company he wanted, male or female, to help him to do it. Thus he did-within limits-just about what Graves wanted him to do; and, in spite of the fact that he did not want to enjoy life, he liked it.
One evening, however, he refused to play a slot machine, explaining to his laughing companion that the laws of chance were pretty thoroughly shackled in such mechanisms-and the idle remark backfired. What was the mathematical probability that all the things that had happened to him could have happened by pure chance?
That night he analyzed his data. Six incidents; the probability was extremely small. Seven, if he counted his arm. If it had been his left arm-jet back! Since he wrote with his right hand, very few people knew that he was left-handed. Seven it was; and that made it virtually certain. Accident was out.
But if he was being delayed and hampered deliberately, who was doing it, and why? It didn't make sense. Nevertheless, the idea would not down.
He was a trained observer and an analyst second to none. Therefore he soon found out that he was being shadowed wherever he went, but he could not get any really significant leads. Wherefore:
'Graves, have you got a spy-ray detector?' he asked boldly- and watchfully.
The fat man did not turn a hair. 'No, nobody would want to spy on me. Why?'
'I feel jumpy. I don't know why anybody would be spying on me, either, but-I'm neither a Lensman nor an esper, but I'd swear that somebody's peeking over my shoulder half the time. I think I'll go over to the Patrol station and borrow one.'
'Nerves, my boy; nerves and shock,' Graves diagnosed. 'Losing an arm would knock hell out of anybody's nervous system, I'd say. Maybe the Phillips treatment-the new one growing on- sort of pulls you out of shape.
'Could be,' Cloud assented, moodily. His act had been a flop. If Graves knew anything-and he'd be damned if he could see any grounds for such a suspicion-he hadn't given away a thing.

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Nevertheless, Cloud went to the Patrol office, which was of course completely and permanently shielded. There he borrowed the detector and asked the lieutenant in charge to get a special report from the Patrol upon the alleged gems and what it knew about either the cruiser or the pirates. To justify his request he had to explain his suspicions.
After the messages had been sent the young officer drummed thoughtfully upon his desk. 'I wish I could do something, Dr. Cloud, but I don't see how I can,' he decided finally. 'Without a shred of evidence, I can't act."
'I know. I'm not accusing anybody, yet. It may be anybody between here and Andromeda. Just call me, please, as soon as you get that report.'
The report came, and the Patrolman was round-eyed as he imparted the information, that, as far as Prime Base could discover, there had been no Lonabarian gems and the rescuing vessel had not been a Patrol ship at all. Cloud was not surprised.
'I thought so,' he said, flatly. 'This is a hell of a thing to say, but it now becomes a virtual certainty-six sigmas out on the probability curve-that this whole fantastic procedure was designed solely to keep me from analyzing and blowing out that new vortex. As to where the vortex fits in, I haven't even the dimmest possible idea, but one thing is clear. Graves represents TPI-on this planet he is TPI. Now what kind of monkey business would TPI-or, more likely, somebody working under cover in TPI, because undoubtedly the head office doesn't know anything about it-be doing? I ask you.'
'Dope, you mean? Cocaine-heroin-that kind of stuff?'
'Exactly; and here's what I'm going to do about it.' Bending over the desk, even in that ultra-shielded office, Cloud whispered busily for minutes. 'Pass this along to Prime Base immediately, have them alert Narcotics, and have your men ready in case I strike something hot.'
'But listen, man!' the Patrolman protested. 'Wait-let a Lensman do it. They'll almost certainly catch you at it, and if they're clean nothing can keep you from doing ninety days in the clink.'
'But if we wait, the chances are it'll be too late; they'll have had time to cover up. What I'm asking you is, will you back my play if I catch them with the goods?'
'Yes. We'll be here, armored and ready. But I still think
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you're nuts.'