"Robert F. Young - Passage to Gomorrah" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

She was the Galaxy's most beautiful whore. He knew that if he
went
to her couch during the time-storm, he, too, would be booking



PASSAGE TO
GOMORRAH
By ROBERT F. YOUNG
ILLUSTRATOR SUMMERS

EVEN for a lady of the stars, the Lady Berenice was beautiful. Her short blonde hair made Cross
think of Martian maize, and her blue eyes, set wide apart in her tanned, oval face, reminded him of the ice
lakes of Frigidia. Her tall, Junoesque body put to shame the porno-graphic photographs he had seen of
it, cheapened the lurid passages he had read about it; betrayed, as yet, no evidence of her apostasy.
He wondered who her lover was, and why she had refused to reveal him.
When the Jacob's lift hatched levels with the Pan-dora's lock, she stepped lightly into the ship beside
him. The corporation officer who had accompanied her, handed him her papers, then signaled to the
longstarmen below. After a moment the lift and its sole occupant sank from sight.
"How soon do we blast?" the Lady Berenice asked.
She was looking at Cross intently, as though trying to probe beyond the bleak grayness of his eyes.
"In about fifteen minutes, my lady," he said.
She nodded, stepped into the ship proper. He sealed the lock and escorted her up the spiral
companionway to her cabin.
She paused in the doorway. "I'd like my luggage, please."
"I'll bring it up as soon as we're in A Priori, my lady. Right now, I'll have to insist that you strap
yourself on the acceleration couch."
He watched as she did his bidding. "You can get up as soon as the 'all clear' signal sounds," he said
presently.
She nodded again, not in the least perturbed. He won-dered if she'd be equally calm if "acceleration
couch" was something more than a hand-me-down term from pre-degravitation days; if she'd be equally
composed if she had to contend with 3 or 4 g's, in-stead of just the temporary instability of blast-off.
She probably would be, he decided. A miscarriage would not affect her banishment to Gomorrah,
but it would save her the unpleasantness of hav-ing to give birth to a mutant.
He excused himself and headed for the control room.

A Priori drive, once acti-vated, required no supervision except in cases of emergency. The Pandora
was only a one-passenger-one-pilot job, but Falcon Lines, Inc., had a repu-tation throughout the civilized
sector of the galaxy for fast, efficient service, and even its smallest ships boasted the lat-est in automatic
equipment.
Cross secured the control-room door behind him, made his way leisurely down the spiral
companionway to the hold, where the Wine-Women-and-Song longstarmen had de-posited the Lady
Berenice's luggage. Even in the artificial 1/2 g, the two bags were heavy and he was breathing a little hard
when he halted before her door.
He knocked. "Yes?" she answered, her voice muffled by the sound of running water.
 "Your luggage, my lady."
The sound of running water ceased, and presently she opened the door. She had wrapped a ship's
towel deftly around her torso. It was a white towel that enhanced the hue of her clear, tanned skin. Water
glistened on her golden shoulders, ran in twinkling rivulets down her coppery thighs and calves. "Set them
inside, please."