"Brian Daley - Fall of the White Ship Avatar" - читать интересную книгу автора (Daley Brian)

The customs inspector gave them a gimlet stare. "Let's just see your documentation, please." Customs
officers were watching, as were two guards who were rocking back and forth and swinging their
nunchaka nonchalantly.
Floyt tried not to feel panic. It wasn't the tightest spot his young companion had gotten him into. Still, as
a former Earthservice functionary, Floyt dreaded and feared bureaucracy. More, it couldn't be much
longer before their hasty escape from Terra was noticed. A message to the Lunar authorities calling for
their detention was a disaster not to be contemplated.
"Yeah, y'see, we're applying as undocumented persons," Alacrity announced.
Which was ridiculous right on the face of it and had the guards hooking their thumbs over their pistols,
since Alacrity and Floyt had just come up from Earth, where every action—and particularly travel—was
attended by endless red tape.
Except that, in their case, it was true. They'd landed on Terra under fire in an outlawed spacecraft, stayed
long enough to help bring down the Earthservice government and shake the foundations of worlds
human and nonhuman across known space, then taken flight with very little forethought.
"Well,"—Inspector Grissom grinned—"this looks like it's going to take a little paperwork, eh?"
When Alacrity nodded emphatically, the man gave the other customs officials the eye. They made sure
no one else was around to interrupt. The two guards wandered off so as not to take notice of what was
about to happen. They'd get their cut later.
God bless Lunar flexibility, Floyt implored. Grissom turned out to be very understanding that Dr. Von
Cribdeath and Prof. MaLarkey came from a place with no formal travel documentation, a world Alacrity
specified as Sweet Baby's Arms, which might or might not exist. The fact that Alacrity was dressed in
the outfit of a breakabout—a working interstellar spacer—and Floyt wore an ancient-style Terran


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 [Fitzhugh 3]-FALL OF THE WHITE SHIP AVATAR


tuxedo, white tie with black tails, didn't seem to shake the inspector's faith in them one whit.
Until, that is, Alacrity, leaning across the counter and speaking privily, could produce only a few dozen
ovals and a handful of Spican ducats, plus small-denomination odds and ends.
Customs inspector Grissom then frowned. "Are you being cute, boys?"
"Uh-uh! We can get you more," Floyt heard Alacrity murmur as the other officials pressed closer.
"Good," Grissom said. "You can wait right here in the holding pen while somebody fetches it on down."
A woman inspector had her finger close to a call-button, ready to summon back the guards. Floyt's gut
suddenly tightened. He knew Alacrity would do just about anything to avoid being dragged back to
Earth, but Floyt wasn't sure he was really up to dodging, dashing, and fighting his way through Lunar
customs, and was painfully aware that Alacrity rarely consulted him on such matters before throwing the
first punch.
"Well, it's not exactly like that," Alacrity admitted, and Floyt saw him casually glance to the inspector
who held the guns. Floyt found his heart beating very fast. The man was some distance away and,
moreover, had the two pistols. Alacrity's had been called a "dinosaur gun," while Floyt's Webley was
loaded with Chicago Popcorn, dum-dums notched all the way down to the case mouths.
"But it'll really be worth your while," Alacrity maintained. "Believe me, it will; you know me. Look,
we'll go get it for you, be back inside an hour, and you can hang onto our guns."
Grissom considered that for a moment. The reproduction Webley and the Captain's Sidearm—passed
down from Alacrity's father—were plainly valuable, but the inspector had several coworkers and a
couple of guards to satisfy, and maybe a superior or two to grease.
Alacrity saw him thinking it through and about to discard it. He turned to Floyt. "Ho, gimme your
Inheritor's belt."