"Harrison, Harry - Bill, the Galactic Hero 7 - The Final Incoherent Adventure" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

He groveled his way out of the General's cabin. Bill wasn't sure that the General even noticed; he was busy in some kind of religious-military ecstasy.
Since the General's ship, the Heavenly Peace, wasn't a normal flagship, but a scout, it didn't have the normal accouterments of combat command. The General's cabin took up less than a full deck, for example, and didn't even have the standard private gym; the General had to use the same one as the other officers, and share the steam bath and masseuse. The ship was so small that there was only one dining hall, for the officers, and one mess hall for the enlisted men which was really the engine room with tables over the pipes. It got so hot that most Troopers couldn't eat; which was OK since the food was inedible in the first place. The chef in the dining hall would have access to the wine cellar, of course, so he wouldn't bother with a still. Bill went to visit the mess-hall cook.
He steered his way through the rows of dented metal tables and pipes. The tables had carefully been arranged in a pattern about halfway between zigzag and random, so the troopers had to keep their eyes down and their wits about them in order to get across the room without slicing up their knees and ankles. Fortunately, the place was empty - breakfast was just over, and most of the crew was on line at sick call - so he could walk on the tables for some of the more complicated parts.
"Closed. Bowb off," the cook growled.
"And a good morning to you as well," Bill placated. "Would there be a cup of something dark and hot for a new member of the crew?"
The cook grabbed a cup and dipped it into the sink where a KP robot was washing pots. "Here."
Bill swallowed hard, then took a sip of the liquid. "Yummies!" he lied. "That's much better than the pseudo-coffee at Camp Buboe!" He drained the cup, grinned, and held it out to the cook. "Please, sir, may I have some more?"
The cook frowned and glared and grumbled, but he took the cup and dipped it again. This time he tasted it himself.
"You know, you're right. This is better than the usual stuff. And cheaper, too. With the money I save, maybe I'll be able to buy Mom that wooden leg."
"Aww." Bill had once had a Mom too, and maybe even still did. The mail didn't get through too regularly, so he couldn't be sure. "Your mom lost a leg? That's too bad. I could recommend a place that's real good for feet, though." He hoisted the Swiss Army Foot up onto the counter.
"No, no, she's got all her parts. She just collects artificial limbs." The cook took a closer look. "That's a real nice foot, I must say. You wouldn't be willing to part with it by any chance?"
"Sorry. It's the only one I've got with me. I could give you the address of the mailorder..."
"Well that would be real fine. Now you've done me two favors, and I haven't even introduced myself. Julius Child, Mess Sergeant."
"Bill, fusetender first class and God's own tail gunner."
"God's own tail gunner? Then you've already met the General. What can I do for you, Bill?"
Bill looked around slyly and lowered his voice. "You wouldn't know where I could get some alcohol, would you?"
Sergeant Child looked thoughtful. "Hmmm." He looked at the racks and cupboards over the stoves and sinks as though he was going through an inventory in his mind. "There's the wood alcohol they use to clean the torpedo tubes, but that'll kill you, and besides, they lace it with saltpeter." He thought some more. "There's the chaplain's sacramental wine, but he's an officer, and officers don't share, and the lock to the wine cabinet is kept in a cage with the chaplain's sacramental rattlesnakes. I think that's out." He looked at Bill for confirmation.
Bill weighed the matter carefully: on the one hand, wine; on the other, virtually certain death. After some time, he reluctantly agreed with Child.
While the mess sergeant was thinking some more, Bill interrupted him. "Surely you could do something? Some leftover vegetables, a little sugar, yeast, water, heat, and if you want to get fancy, a distillation coil?" Bill was no chemistry whiz, but over the years he had picked up a few basic survival skills.
Child looked shocked. Bill knew that look well, having been severely shocked not long ago himself, and looked around for loose wiring. He didn't find any, so he looked back at the mess sergeant, who said, "Moi? Make illicit alcohol? Never. I would never consider such an idea. It would violate all my dearest principles. 'Lips that touch liquor shall never touch mine,' so forget about kissing me, too." He would have gone on in this vein for some time if not for the arrival of a trooper in a full dress desert camouflage apron, bearing two buckets of potato peelings.
"Got yer makings here, Sarge. Want me to dump 'em right in the still?"
"Still?" Bill trilled, thrilled. "You have got a still!"
"No, no," the sergeant demurred, signaling to the aproned trooper to keep his mouth shut or certain death awaited. "He said swill, didn't you, Brownknows? We're having swill for lunch today, made with genuine vegetable peelings from the officers' dining room. It's a big favorite with the men. Bill, you can tell the General that all the troopers love their swill. Yes, indeed."
"Why would I tell the General?"
Brownknows snickered as he put down the buckets.
Bill glowered at him. Brownknows glowered back.
The ritual completed, Bill asked again, "Why should I tell the General?"
"You are his spy, aren't you?" Child insisted.
"Bowb no!" Bill denied.
"Come on," Brownknows cajoled, "you must be. Most of us on the Heavenly Peace are spies of some sort," he admitted.
"And if you aren't a spy for the Chingers," the sergeant reasoned, "you must be a spy for General Weissearse."
Brownknows nodded agreement. "Yeah. You haven't contacted any of the other spy cells on board. The only person you've spent any time with is the General. And if he thought you were a Chinger spy, you'd be dead. And you're not. Therefore, you're his spy."
Bill considered this deeply, and analyzed his priorities and loyalties. "If I were a spy for the Chingers," he offered, "and I'm not saying that I am, mind you, just say if I was would I be able to get a drink then?"
"Well," Child conceded, "on the basis of your being a Chinger spy I would have no objection to finding you a drink - of which there isn't any on the ship because our beloved General has forbidden it to enlisted men. But then, if you were working for the Chingers, then Brownknows here would have to arrest you, because he is a spy for the Imperial Office of Anti-subversive Activities. Isn't that right?"
"Not exactly," Brownknows corrected. "My assignment here is to spy on the officers, not on the enlisted men. I also steal scraps from the dining hall for the still that we would have if the General permitted it. But there's nothing in my orders about Chingers or Chinger spies. Or enlisted men, for that matter. What about you?"
"I have nothing to do with Chingers," the Mess Sergeant demurred. "I'm spying for the Society for the Preservation of Ancient Morality. SPAM has been infiltrating mess halls for centuries, restraining the natural hedonistic tendencies of troopers and making sure that they don't get overstimulated by their food.
"On the side," he continued, "I get a stipend from the Desert Monsoon Foundation for not serving any Eyerackian delicacies, which might undermine the morale of our troops.
"But," Child insisted, "none of this has anything to do with you, Bill, because you have already denied being a Chinger spy."
"Exactly," Bill claimed. "Isn't that what I would do if I really was a Chinger spy?"
"Possibly," Brownknows waffled.
"But not necessarily," Child refuted.
Bill wanted to continue the argument, but he couldn't think of any more synonyms for "said." Instead he wandered off to find the tail gun and see if an earlier tail gunner had left a bottle behind.
Word spread rapidly on the Heavenly Peace. None of the other crew he saw wanted to talk to him, not even to tell him where to go, or, for that matter, where the tail gun was. They wouldn't even talk to him when he offered them hot sauce from his combat foot.
On the other hand, that left him with few distractions, and within a couple of hours he was snugly fitted into the tail gunner's bubble turret.
Bill had seen something like this before, but only once, and a long time ago. In fact, the last time was what had gotten him here, the time that made him a galactic hero. Since he'd been heroic and wounded and on the verge of passing out, and was never any too bright to start with, his memory of the gun turret on the Fanny Hill was pretty hazy. There had been a joystick with a red button on it, and a screen with red and green lights, and no instructions.
This one was much more elaborate. The sides of the turret were all covered with garish paintings of Chingers and tanks and bridges exploding under a banner reading, "Nintari Electronics Presents: TAIL GUNNER!" The chair swiveled around and tilted back and forth. Instead of a joystick there was a yoke, like the controls for a hovercar, and it had two buttons, one red and the other black. The black one had a little label that said STRAFE. The red one had a little label that said BOMB.
When Bill strapped himself into the seat, the screen lit up with a full-color computer-animated portrait of the Emperor, eyes wandering gaily and separately about. After a minute that picture was replaced with one of General Weissearse in his desert camouflage muumuu. This picture said "What's your name, Trooper?"
Bill said, "Bill."
Across the bottom of the screen scrolled TROOPER BIL.
"No," Bill said. "Two L's." But the screen ignored him.