"C M Kornbluth - The Adventurer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kornbluth C M)

Arris wished he had the shooting of him, and tried to explore the chain of secrecy for a weak link. He
was tired and bored by this harping on the Fron-on the brigands.

His aide tentatively approached him. "Interceptors in striking range, sir," he murmured.

"Thank you," said the wing commander, genuinely grateful to be back in the clean, etched-line world of
the Service and out of that blurred, water-color, civilian land where long-dead Syrians apparently retailed
classified matter to nasty little drunken warts who had no business with it. Arris confronted the
sixty-incher. The particle that had become three particles was now-he counted-eighteen particles. Big
ones. Getting bigger.

He did not allow himself emotion, but turned to the plot on the interceptor squadron.

"Set up Lunar relay," he ordered.

"Yessir."

Half the plot room crew bustled silently and efficiently about the delicate job of applied relativistic
physics that was 'lunar relay.' He knew that the palace power plant could take it for a few minutes, and
he wanted to see. If he could not believe radar pips, he might believe a video screen.

On the great, green circle, the eighteen-now twenty-four-particles neared the thirty-six smaller particles
that were interceptors, led by the eager young Efrid.

"Testing Lunar relay, sir," said the chief teck.

The wing commander turned to a twelve-inch screen. Unobtrusively, behind him, tecks jockeyed for
position. The picture on the screen was something to see. The chief let mercury fill a thick-walled,
ceramic tank. There was a sputtering and contact was made.

"Well done," said Arris. "Perfect seeing."

He saw, upper left, a globe of ships-what ships! Some were Service jobs, with extra turrets plastered on
them wherever there was room. Some were orthodox freighters, with the same porcupine-bristle of
weapons. Some were obviously home-made crates, hideously ugly-and as heavily armed as the others.

Next to him, Arris heard his aide murmur, "It's all wrong, sir.



They haven't got any pick-up boats. They haven't got any hospital ships. What happens when one of
them gets shot up?"

"Just what ought to happen, Evan," snapped the wing commander. "They float in space until they
desiccate hi their suits. Or if they get grappled inboard with a boat hook, they don't get any medical care.
As I told you, they're brigands, without decency even to care of their own." He enlarged on the theme.
"Their morale must be insignificant compared with our men's. When the Service goes into action, every
rating and teck knows he'll be cared for if he's hurt. Why, if we didn't have pick-up boats and hospital
ships the men wouldn't-" He almost finished it with "fight," but thought, and lamely ended,-"wouldn't like