"Harrison, Harry - Bill, the Galactic Hero 6 - on the Planet of The Hippies From Hell" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

Sgt. Porky looked at him like he was from Hayseedworld. "Well of course it's going to some godforsaken planet. They all do."
"No, that's the name of the place. Some Godforsaken Planet."
"Look, buddy, if you ain't got a name, I can't help you." A noisy blast of steam drowned out his voice.
"What?" said Bill.
"What's on Second Baseworld," said the guy.
"Who?"
"Who's on Firstworld. Plays shortstop for the Yankee Imperialists. Every sports-loving Trooper knows that, bowbhead." His eyes squinted up with suspicion. "You a Chinger spy or something?"
Bill refrained from killing him on the spot. Teeth grinding, he shoved his official Galactic Bureau of Investigation documents under the corporal's nose.
"Geez. A Fed. Sorry, you excellency. How can I serve you?" said the fat man, suddenly shiveringly penitent.
"Where is this starship going?"
"Deathworld 69, sir. In the Missionary Position nebula."
"That's Some Godforsaken Planet!"
"Yes sir, it certainly is." The sergeant nodded his head emphatically. "It's real hell. Troopers who go there never come back. Alive. Why's the GBI sending you there? Some kind of special mission?"
Bill sighed off his frustration. "No, I'm not going there. I need to get a guy in this ship who has been dispatched there. We need him. You got an officer in there name of Brandox?"
The guard consulted his clipboard. "Yeah. Here we go, sir. Brandox. He's aboard. But we've only got five minutes till we seal the port. Wouldn't do to have a starship lift off into the near vacuum with its barn door hanging wide open, now would it?"
"One more joke and you are dead. Stop all lift-off procedures instantly."
"I can't!" He wailed, vibrating with fear. "You stop the countdown on one of these antique models, they blow up. Energy-saving measure, Emperor's own orders."
"I gotta get in there and get that guy out before the doors close, then. Right. A Trooper's gotta do what a Trooper's gotta do." Namely, get this alcoholic officer out of there so they could both go to Barworld. Bill parked the grav-car (on the check-in sergeant's foot at first, which cost a scream of grief and a wasted forty-five seconds) then galloped up the starship ramp.
That the BEELZEBUB was a "Meat Runner" - Trooper argot for a vessel that dragged the detritus of the military ranks to their dooms - was immediately made apparent by the profound odor de Trooper that met Bill's nose upon entering the hold. The starship itself was clearly an old freighter pressed into service not only long past its prime but well past its expiration date. Its welds were strained, its wiring leaking volts and the whole thing vibrated like a Spican wartdog in rut. Bill slapped his way through a number of hanging cables and plumbing lines, his nose twitching at the visible fug of the interior. The autolifts were welded immobile with rust, so Bill had to climb a series of ladders.
Finally, he reached a large, dark chamber only dimly lit by the starship's reactor core and a few candles.
"Is there a Lieutenant Brandox Junior in here!"
Groans. The clank of tin cups, the slosh of chamber pots, the smell of stale bread and beans, the clank of chains. Dim forms moved in the shadows.
"Lieutenant Brandox Junior didja say?" came a groan.
"That's right," said Bill hopefully.
"Ain't me!"
"Not me!"
"I ain't Brandox, that's for sure!" came the growls in response.
Damn! Time was running out. The doors were going to close on this thing any minute, and Bill would be trapped on the way to Deathworld 69, never to return!
"Well, who the bowb is!"
"He's up in the really nasty part of the ship. He's in solitary along with some other bowbheads."
"Wonderful." Bill didn't question the concept of a shared solitary cell not only because he didn't have time, but because this was a typical Trooper paradox. Bill just scrambled up another ladder into a truly filthy section of the craft, if slightly better lit by the even more radioactive core. That was okay, thought Bill. He'd been getting a bit pale lately and he could use a tan.
"Lieutenant Brandox!" He cried. "Junior."
"Hey pal!" slurred a voice. "Shat's me! What's shup?"
Bill turned. There against a wall was a true wreck of a Trooper holding a liter bottle of clear liquid. His nose was red and his eyes were so bloodshot they looked as though there were no whites in them at all, just pupil and veins. The odor of pure ethanol wafted over to Bill. For the first time in his entire life, Bill was offended by the smell of drink. The overall stink of the place must be getting to him.
"Wanna drink?"
"Not right now. Take a look at this." Bill waved his GBI identification before the unseeing eyes. "C'mon, lieutenant. We gotta move - but fast."
"You betcha - but gotta bring my bottle."
"Do it. That's why we want you."
Bill dragged the drunk after him; he smelled like bargain night in the Dingbat Distillery. Bill took a deep breath and decided maybe to leave off the booze a while, just so that he'd be really primed for Barworld. But even as Brandox took an unsteady step, there was a jarring clang and he was pulled back into an abrupt sitting position.
"Urp!" He said. "Forgot. Little problem." He jerkily indicated the tungsten bar around his chest, chained to the bulkhead by impervium, the hardest metal known. "You got a thermal lance?"
"Two minutes until closing of hatch!" rasped a fiendish voice on the loudspeaker.
Bill squealed. He gave a feeble tug on the chain, but he knew it would be no good, and he sure as hell didn't have time to look for a hacksaw - which even if he found it would be about as useful as an umbrella in a meteor shower.
"Sorry, Brandox. Looks like you're stuck here. Oh well, they say that Some Godforsaken Planet has nice sunsets this time of year."
"Then I hope I get there after Deathworld 69!" said Brandox. "And I hope they've got good Margaritas." The drunken lieutenant promptly passed out.
"Just as well," muttered Bill to himself as he searched for the exit. "I'd have to carry this lush to Barworld."
Bill was just going to have to report that Lt. Brandox was unavailable for Special Mission Duty.
He found the ladder and crawled down it.
He made his way through the murky hold, anxious to get out of this Trooper's hellhole, searching for the exit. So anxious was Bill, in fact, that he did not notice the rusty chain slung along the floor at ankle level. He charged straight into it and went sprawling into the wall. Snap went the chain. However, his hardened Trooper reflexes (and hardened Trooper head) prevented him from tumbling in unconsciousness after his noggin met some metal. As he looked up blearily, looking for the exit, he was still quite aware that unless he got his face through that door in under two minutes, his butt was going to get shipped to Deathworld 69.
Which was, of course, Some Godforsaken Planet any bowbing way you sliced it.
There it was! The way out!