"Martin H. Greenberg - Space Stations" - читать интересную книгу автора (Greenberg Martin H)

"We'll need to stay aboard until after Space Force One has passed out of
magscope range," Cummings told Bob as they headed back toward the
entryway. "We'd like to set up as near the main control area as possible."
"Certainly," Bob said. Ahead, he could hear a murmuring of unfamiliar
voices from the reception room. Apparently, the GenTronic Twelve had
arrived, and Bob tossed up a quick prayer that there wouldn't be any bored
teenagers or inquisitive toddlers in the group. "The station was originally
designed for a crew of fifteen hundred, you know. There's a duty dayroom
just off the control complex you can use."
They came around the corner into the reception room, and Bob breathed a
quiet sigh of relief. No toddlers; no teenagers; just nine youngish,
pleasant-looking men in upscale bulkyjackets spread out around the room
reading the plaques. Probably rich enough to be sued if they broke anything,
which meant they would be careful not to. Hix was hovering nearby,
looking like a combination proud mother and nervous curator, all traces of
his earlier depression gone from his face. Hix loved showing off his station
to visitors even more than Bob did.
"Ah—here's Ranger Bob now," Hix said as Bob and the agents stepped
into the room. "I was just telling Herr Forste here what a good job you've
done keeping Space Fort Jefferson running."
"Nice to meet you, Ranger Bob," Forste said, smiling. His English had a
pleasant North European accent to it. "And who are your friends?"
Bob looked at Cummings, wondering what exactly he was supposed to
say here. Cummings moved smoothly into the gap. "My name's Alan," he
said. "This is my friend Thomas. You and your friends come from Ceres?"
"Not exactly," Forste said. "We're from Free Norway."
Free Norway? Frowning, Bob turned back to him—
And caught his breath. From beneath their bulkyjackets, all nine men had
suddenly produced small but nasty-looking handguns. "You will all please
put up your hands," Forste said.
He smiled genially. "Especially you, Secret Service Agents Cummings
and Drexler."
They picked up Kelsey as he filled out duty logs in Dock Obs, Renfred as
he polished plaques in the Number One Fire Control Center, and Bronsoni
as he sneaked an unauthorized nap in the Number Thirteen-D torpedo
launch tube.
"Which leaves only Gifford Wimbley," Forste said with satisfaction as he
and four of the other gunmen herded the prisoners into the Number Three
Defense Monitor Complex. "Where is he?"
"He's on a supply run to Ceres," Bob said. "He won't be back for another
two weeks."
Forste's eyes narrowed. "Really," he said, lifting his left thumbnail to his
lips and tapping the tip. "How very convenient. Sjette? You up in Command
yet?"
"Yes, I'm here," a voice came back, just loud enough for Bob to hear.
"Check the duty log," Forste ordered, his eyes on Bob. "Is Gifford
Wimbley off the station?"
Bob cleared his throat. "Uh... Giff usually doesn't bother to check himself
out," he said. "Since there are just the six of us, and we always know where
everyone is—"