"Brian Daley - Jinx on a Terran Inheritance" - читать интересную книгу автора (Daley Brian)

"Dog your dong in a hatch!"
"Do the Dance of Death on your face!" Alacrity lowered his voice. "Did you hear that, Ho? He, he
jinxed us!"
"The way things have been going, how will we know if it takes?"
"We'd better get moving."


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 [Fitzhugh 2]-JINX ON A TERRAN INHERITANCE


They reboarded the tram and resumed the trip to the tower roof. From there, Governor Redlock's opulent
shuttle, the Blue Pearl, was to depart. The governor had a lot of things on his mind, including the death
of his father-in-law, First Councillor Inst, who'd attacked Alacrity and Floyt during the airbike race, and
the discovery that his wife, Queen Dorraine, wasn't quite who he'd always thought she was.
The two companions-in-adversity doubted Redlock's willingness to delay lift-off just for them, so they
put on all speed.
Then, too, there was Sintilla, the lively, determined little free-lance journalist who'd become something
of an ally to them at Frostpile—in part for her own gain. They'd discovered, only minutes earlier, that
she planned to write a series of lurid and completely fictionalized adventure books about them.
Anonymity and a certain freedom of movement were just about the only things they had going for them,
but Sintilla meant to bandy their names around in purple-prose penny dreadfuls with the most
sensationally absurd titles Floyt had ever heard.
"Hobart Floyt and Alacrity Fitzhugh Challenge the Amazon Slave Women of the Supernova." Floyt
groaned to himself.
Alacrity shook his head dejectedly. "I know, I know. But don't let yourself think about that now, Ho.
Just stay alert. Endwraithe might've had some backup. Or Dincrist could try something, High Truce or
not. Scheisse, I wish Redlock had given us back our persuaders."
They cruised past security checkpoints manned by Invincibles, elite troops of the Weir forces in dress
uniforms of crimson and gold. The Invincibles had been ordered to insure that no weapons were
smuggled into Frostpile during the High Truce. Their searches were quite thorough. Yet they'd somehow
missed Endwraithe's. Why a top officer of the powerful Bank of Spica should want to quiz Floyt about
his inheritance, then try to shoot him and Alacrity, was still a puzzle.
Floyt delicately felt at his nose, broken—in the same crash that had cracked Alacrity's rib—and still
smarting despite medical treatment. His tongue probed at the gap where Alacrity had knocked out two of
his teeth.
"What's the point of watching out for assassins?" Floyt grouched. "The underhanded bastards are always
sneaking up on us anyhow."
With the Willreading and other ceremonies over and the High Truce near its end, a good deal of traffic,
mostly departing guests, was traveling the cyclopean corridors of Frostpile. Floyt, who'd only met a
small fraction of them, stared at the dignitaries who'd converged on Epiphany, Weir's seat of power,
from dozens of worlds. Weir had been a major power in that region of space; reapportionment of his


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 [Fitzhugh 2]-JINX ON A TERRAN INHERITANCE


domain was an important event. He doubted that his family and friends back on Earth would be able to
believe him when—if—he got back to describe the hodgepodge of racial subtypes, costumes and finery,