"E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 17 - Prison of Night" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tubb E. C)

Chapter One



Kars Gartok was the last to leave, lingering in his cabin until the others had gone, unwilling to engage in
useless conversation, to hear again the empty threats and bitter denunciations. Only when the ship was
silent did he venture forth to step through the open port and head down the ramp to the field below. It
was late in the day, the sun low on the horizon, the air misted with a damp fog which pearled the mesh of
the perimeter fence and gave the tall figure standing just beyond the gate a blurred, ethereal quality as if it
were the figment of a dream.

But Brother Eldon was no ghost. He waited, dressed in a brown, homespun robe the cowl thrown back
despite the chill to reveal a face seamed and creased with age and privation. His feet were bare in open
sandals and gnarled hands gripped a bowl of cheap plastic chipped and scarred by usage and time. He
lifted it as Gartok approached.

"Of your charity, brother."

Halting Gartok stared at the monk then said, dryly, "Charity? Aren't there fools enough on Hyard
without you wanting more?"

"Is to give an act of foolishness?"

"What else?"

"Some would call it an act of virtue, brother."

"To give without hope of reward is the act of a fool," said Gartok, curtly. "A lesson a man in my trade
quickly learns."

"As those did who left the ship before you?" Then, before Gartok could answer, the monk added,
quietly, "It could be that you have already had your reward. You seem uninjured and you are alive."

"Yes," said Gartok, heavily. "I'm alive."

He was a big man, wide of shoulder and thick of neck, dressed in dark leather trimmed with scarlet,
polished patches showing at shoulders and waist where body-armor had rested. His temples bore
callouses from the weight of a helmet and his eyes, deep-set and hooded, watched from beneath beetling
brows. His hands were broad, the fingers spatulate. The knuckles knobs of bone. His face matched the
hands, broad, rough, ridged and seamed with scars. The mouth was a trap, the chin a rock, the nose a
predatory beak. He looked what he wasтАФa professional dealer in death.

Watching him as he stood there, the mist dewing the stubble of his cropped head, the monk said, "What
happened, brother?"

"We lost."

"And?"

"What more needs to be said? We were out-gunned, out-manned, out-maneuvered. Eighty-three of a