"Lester Del Rey - Police Your Planet" - читать интересную книгу автора (Del Rey Lester)

toward the city of Marsport, sprawling out in a mass of slums beyond the edges of the dome that had
been built to hold air over the central part. And at last he stirred and reached for the yellow stub.
He grimaced at the ONE WAY stamped on it, then tore it into bits and let the pieces scatter over the
floor. He counted them as they fell; thirty pieces, one for each year of his life. Little ones for the two
years he’d wasted as a cop. Shreds for the four years as a kid in the ring before that—he’d never made
the top, though it had taken enough time getting rid of the scars from it. Bigger bits for two years also
wasted in trying his hand at professional gambling; they hadn’t made him a fortune, but they’d been fun at
the time. And the six final pieces that spelled his rise from a special reporter helping out with a police
shake-up coverage through a regular leg-man turning up rackets, and on up like a meteor until he was the
paper’s youngest top man, and a growing thorn in the side of the government. He’d made his big scoop,
all right. He’d dug up enough about the Mercury scandals to double circulation.
And the government had explained what a fool he’d been for printing half of a story that was never
supposed to be printed until it could all be revealed. They’d given him his final assignment, escorted him
to the rocket, and explained just how many grounds for treason they could use against him if he ever tried
to come back without their invitation.
He shrugged. He’d bought a suit of airtight coveralls and a helmet at the field. He had enough to get by
on for perhaps two weeks. And he had a set of reader cards in his pocket, in a pattern which the supply
house Earthside had assured him had never been exported to Mars. With them and the knife he’d
selected, he might get by.
The Solar Security office had given him the knife practice to make sure he could use it, just as they’d
made sure he hadn’t taken extra money with him beyond the regulation amount.
“You’re a traitor, and we’d like nothing better than seeing your guts spilled,” the Security man had told
him. “That paper you swiped was marked top secret. When we’re trying to build a Solar Federation
from a world that isn’t fully united, we have to be rough. But we don’t get many men with your
background—cop, tin-horn, fighter—who have brains enough for our work. So you’re bound for Mars,
rather than the Mercury mines. If…”
It was a big if, and a vague one. They needed men on Mars who could act as links in their information
bureau, and be ready to work on their side when the trouble they expected came. They could see what
went on, from the top. But they wanted men planted in all walks, where they could get information when
they asked for it. Trouble was due—overdue, they felt—and they wanted men who could serve them
loyally, even without orders. If he did them enough service, they might let him back to Earth. If he caused
trouble enough to bother them, they could still help him to Mercury.
“And suppose nothing happens?” he asked.
“Then who cares? You’re just lucky enough to be alive,” the agent told him flatly.
“And what makes you think I’m going to be a spy for Security?”
 The other had shrugged. “Why not, Gordon? You’ve been a spy for six years now—against the
crooked cops and tin-horns who were your friends, and against the men who’ve tried to make something
out of man’s conquest of space. You’ve been a spy for a yellow scandal sheet. Why not for us?”
It had been a nasty fight, while it lasted. And maybe he was here only because the other guy had proved
a little faster with the dirtiest punches. Or maybe because Gordon had been smart enough to realize that
Security was right—his background might be useful on Mars. Useful to himself, at least.
They were in the slums around the city now. Marsport had been settled faster than it was ready to
receive colonists. Temporary buildings had been thrown up and then had remained, decaying into
death-traps, where the men whose dreams had gone seethed and died in crowded filth. It wasn’t a pretty
view that visitors got as they first reached Mars. But nobody except the romantic fools had ever thought
frontiers were pretty.
The drummer who had watched Gordon tear up his yellow stub moved forward now, his desire to
make an impression stronger than his dislike of the other. “First time?” he asked, settling his fat little
carcass into the seat beside the larger man.
Gordon nodded, mentally cataloguing the drummer as to social, business, and personal life. The