"Charles DeVet - Delayed Action" - читать интересную книгу автора (DeVet Charles)

"Go up that stairway by the door," the clerk said. "You'll find him in his office."
 THE manager was an old man. Old and black, with the deep blackness only an Earthborn Negro
possesses. But his eyes retained their youthful alertness.
"Come in and sit down," he told Johnson as he looked up and saw him standing in the doorway.
Johnson walked over and took the chair at the manager's left. "I've had an accident," he said, without
preliminary, "and I seem to have lost my memory. Do you, by any chance, know who I am?"
"Never saw you before in my life," the manager answered. "What's your name?"
"Don Johnson."
"Well, at least you remember something," the old man said shrewdly. "You didn't come during the last
six months, if that'll help any. There've been only two ships in that time. Both the Company's. I meet all
Company ships. If you came in during the tourist season I wouldn't know."
"Where else could I make inquiries?"
"Son," the old man said kindly, "there's three Earthmen on Marlock, that I know of—besides
yourself, of course—the clerk at the hotel, my storekeeper, and myself. If you started asking questions at
the hotel, you're at the end of the line now."
Something in Johnson's expression caused the old man to go on. "How you fixed for money, son?"
Johnson drew a deep breath. "I've got enough to last me about two weeks."
The manager hesitated, and carefully surveyed the ceiling with his eyes before he spoke again. "I've
always felt we Earthmen should stick together," he said. "If you want a job, I'll find something for you to
do and put you on the payroll."
Twenty minutes later Johnson took the job—and twenty years later he was still working for the
Company. He worked for them until . . .

JOHNSON was glad when the first twinge of fear came that it brought no panic. Instead it washed
through his body, sharpening his reflexes and alerting his muscles for action.
He never ceased to wonder about this faculty he had acquired for sensing the presence of danger.
There was no doubt in his mind that it had come into active function through the influence of his
environment. But it must have been an intrinsic part of him even before that, waiting to be activated.
A moment before he had localized the source of his uneasiness —an Earthman, following perhaps
fifty paces behind him. The one quick glance Johnson had allowed himself told him his follower was
above average in height, and lean—with the wiry, muscular command of himself that marked him as a
man capable of well-coordinated action.
He fought the rising force of the next "sand-blaster" boiling in from the desert, until he was unable to
take a step against it. Then he moved behind a mud-packed arm projecting from the native dwelling at his
right. Every building had one of these protecting arms added on; even the concrete buildings in the newer,
Earth-built section of the city conformed to the custom. The sandstorms raged intermittently on Marlock
through the entire nine month summer season, and could not be ignored, either by visitors or natives.
Johnson huddled against the projection, but the sand whipped around the corner and pounded at his
back. Fine grains sifted through his clothing and mingled with the clammy sweat of his body. He resisted
the frantic urge to scratch his itching, tormented skin, for he knew the flesh would be rubbed raw in a
minute and increase the irritation to maddening proportions.
As the "sand-blaster" lost its intensity, he came out from his shelter and walked away as rapidly as
the diminishing force of the wind would permit. If he could reach his office before his stalker closed in, he
would be safe.
Suddenly a second Earthman, a short length of pipe in his right hand, came out of a doorway across
the street and ran toward him.
Johnson realized that here was the source of the warning his intuition had sent—not the man behind
him.

FOR a brief instant, he weighed the situation. The man was equipped for assault, but the chances