"E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 10 - Jondelle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tubb E. C)

and horn. Camouflage or protectionтАФit was impossible to see
what lay beneath the masks, but Dumarest had no doubt as to
what they intended. Robbers, armed with knives, willing and
perhaps eager to use them against defenseless victims. To cut
and stab and slash in a fury of blood-lust. To kill the man and
perhaps the boy. Degenerates out for a little fun. The scum
inevitable in any civilization.

One turned as he approached. Dumarest saw the mask, the
glitter of eyes, the sweep of the blade held like a sword in a
gloved hand. It lanced forward in an upswinging thrust which
would have disemboweled an unprotected belly. Dumarest
jumped to one side, his own blade whining as it cut through the
air, the edge hitting, biting, breaking free as it slashed through
the hand just behind the fingers. Fingers and knife fell in a
fountain of blood, the blade swinging up again in a return slash
at the lower edge of the mask, the tip finding and severing the
soft tissues of the throat.

Without pause, he sprang at the nearest of the other two, left
arm blocking the defending blade, his own point lifting to aim at
an eye, to thrust, twist, and emerge dripping with fresh blood.

"Hold it!" The third man had retreated, dropping his knife,
his hand now heavy with the weight of a gun. "You fool," he said.
"You interfered. No one asked you to do that. All we wanted was
the kid. You could have walked past and forgotten what you'd
seen. Instead you had to act the hero. Well, now you're going to
pay for it," He poised the weapon. "In the belly," he said. "A hole
burned right through your guts. You'll take a long time to die
and scream every minute of it. Damn you! Here it comes!"

Dumarest moved, leaping to one side, his arm reaching back,
than forward, the knife spinning from his hand. He saw the
mask, the gun, the ruby guide-beam of the laser, and caught the
stench of seared plastic and metal. Pain tore at his side and then
the beam had gone, the gun swinging upward, the mask, the hilt
of the knife protruding like an ugly growth from the flesh
beneath.

Then pain became a consuming nightmare.


CHAPTER TWO


He looked to be six pushing seven, a stocky lad with a mane of
yellow hair and eyes deep-set and vividly blue. His back and
shoulders were straight, his stomach still rotund from early fat,
his hands dimpled, his mouth a soft rose. He stood beside the