"Smith, E E 'Doc' - Lensman 07 - Masters Of The Vortex" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith E. E. Doc)
'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?'
'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.'
'Maybe so, but even if my mathematics is wrong, it's still a fact that my arm will grow back on just as fast in the clink as anywhere else. Clear ether, lieutenant-until tonight!'
Cloud made an engagement with Graves for luncheon. Arriving a few minutes early, he was of course shown into the private office. Since the manager was busily signing papers, Cloud strolled to the side window and seemed to gaze appreciatively at the masses of gorgeous blooms just outside. What he really saw, however, was the detector upon his wrist.
Nobody knew that he had in his sleeve a couple of small, but highly efficient, tools. Nobody knew that he was left-handed. Nobody saw what he did, nor was any signal given that he did anything at all.
That night, however, that window opened alarmlessly to his deft touch. He climbed in, noiselessly. He might be walking straight into trouble, but he had to take that chance. One thing was in his favor; no matter how crooked they were, they couldn't keep armored troops on duty as night-watchmen, and the Patrolmen could get there as fast as their thugs could.
He had brought no weapons. If he was wrong, he would not need any and being armed would only aggravate his offense. If right, there would be plenty of weapons available. There were. A whole drawer full of DeLameters-fully charged-belts and everything. He leaped across the room to Graves' desk; turned on a spy-ray. The sub-basement-'private laboratories', Graves had said-was blocked. He threw switch after switch-no soap. Communicators-ah, he was getting somewhere now-a steel-lined room, a girl and a boy.
'Eureka! Good evening, folks.'
'Eureka? I hope you rot in hell, Graves ...'
'This isn't Graves. Cloud. Storm Cloud, the Vortex Blaster, investigating...'
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