"James Tiptree Jr. - Beam Us Home" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tiptree James Jr)

The official notice said that movement of personnel between sectors would be reduced to a minimum as a
temporary measure to control the spread of respiratory ailments. Translation: you could go from the
support zone to the front, but you couldn't go back.

Hobie was moved into a crowded billet and assigned to Casualty and Supply. Shortly he discovered that
there was a translation for respiratory ailments too. Gee-gee turned out to be a multiform misery of groin
rash, sore throat, fever, and unending trots. It didn't seem to become really acute; it just cycled along.
Hobie was one of those who were only lightly affected, which was lucky because the hospital beds were
full. So were the hospital aisles. Evacuation of all casualties had been temporarily suspended until a
controlled corridor could be arranged.

The Gu├йs did not, it seemed, get gee-gee. The ground troops were definitely sure of that. Nobody knew
how it was spread. Rumor said it was bats one week, and then the next week they were putting stuff in
the water. Poisoned arrows, roaches, women, disintegrating canisters, all had their advocates. However
it was done, it was clear that the U.A.R. technological aid had included more than hardware. The official
notice about a forthcoming vaccine yellowed on the board.

Ground fighting was veering closer to Hobie's strip. He heard mortars now and then, and one night the
Gu├йs ran in a rocket launcher and nearly got the fuel dump before they where chased back.

"All they got to do is wait," said the gunner. "We're dead."

"Gee-gee doesn't kill you," said C/S control. "You just wish it did."

"They say."

The strip was extended, and three attack bombers came in. Hobie looked them over. He had trained on
AX92's all one summer; he could fly them in his sleep. It would be nice to be alone.

He was pushing the C/S chopper most of the daylight hours now. He had gotten used to being shot at
and to being sick. Everybody was sick, except a couple of replacement crews who were sent in two
weeks apart, looking startlingly healthy. They said they had been immunized with a new antitoxin. Their
big news was that gee-gee could be cured outside the zone.

"We're getting reinfected," the gunner said. "That figures. They want us out of here."

That week there was a big drive on bats, but it didn't help. The next week the first batch of replacements
were running fevers. Their shots hadn't worked, and neither did the stuff they gave the second batch.

After that, no more men came in except a couple of volunteer medicos. The billets and the planes and the
mess were beginning to stink. That dysentery couldn't be controlled after you got weak.

What they did get was supplies. Every day or so another ton of stuff would drift down. Most of it was
dragged to one side and left to rot. They were swimming in food. The staggering cooks pushed steak and
lobster at men who shivered and went out to retch. The hospital even had ample space now, because it
turned out that gee-gee really did kill you in the end. By that time, you were glad to go. A cemetery
developed at the far side of the strip, among the skeletons of the defoliated trees.
On the last morning, Hobie was sent out to pick up a forward scout team. He was one of the few left
with enough stamina for long missions. The three-man team was far into Gu├й territory, but Hobie didn't