"E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 15 - Spectrum of a Forgotten Sun" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tubb E. C)

"Here." Dumarest knelt, feeling the squelch of mud, reaching out with
his left hand to grip the other's shoulder. "Relax, Clar. You'll be all right."

"Don't lie to me, Earl." The pain-wracked voice held a bitter
impatience. "Am I a raw recruit to believe a thing like that? I'm as good
as dead and you know it. That laser caught me right across the guts. If I
hadn't been armored I'd be dead now." The voice drew strength from
pain and anger. "Damn the armor! Damn it! Damn it all to hell!"

A flare rose from a point close to hand, cold, blue-white light
throwing stark shadows from the ruined buildings, the broken remains
of once-decorative trees. Once the city had been a gentle place graced
with statues and things of beauty; now the fury of internecine war had
turned it into a shambles.

"Earl!" Clar writhed beneath Dumarest's hand. "The pain! Dear God,
the pain!"

"Easy!"

"I'm burning! My gutsтАФ!" The voice became an animal-cry of searing
agony. A shriek which could bring unwanted attention.

With his free hand Dumarest tore at his belt, jerking open the pouch
it contained, spilling free the contents. An ampule tipped with a hollow
needle rose to bury itself in the writhing man's throat. A pressure and
numbing drugs laced the bloodstream. A temporary measure only;
nothing available could heal the wound. In the blazing light of the
drifting flare Dumarest examined it.

The armor Clar had worn, like his own, was cheap stuff, protection
against low-velocity missiles, falling debris, shrapnel and ricochets. It
could even give some defense against the glancing beam of a laser,
melting even as it distributed the heat, but the beam which had caught
Clar had been directly aimed and the plate across his stomach had flared
like paper, adding molten droplets to the searing energy of the blast.
Beneath the twisted metal and charred clothing the flesh was burned,
black and red with char and blood, the greasy ropes of exposed intestines
bulging, perforated, crisp with cauterised tissue.
 "Earl?" Calmed by the drug Oar's voice was flat and dull. "It's bad?"

"Bad enough."

"I knew it." A hand rose to push the helmet from the sweating face,
thin grey hair accentuating the age-lines now prominent at eyes and
mouth. "A hell of a way to end. Ten years with the Corps and never a
wound and now it's the end of the line. Well, it happens. A man can't live
forever, Earl."

But no man had to die like a beast in the mud of a city, spilling his