"Henry Kuttner - Clash by Night (SS Collection) UC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kuttner Henry)

The cine called on his God in a mild voice. 'Glad you made it. Any accident?'
'No, sir. The pilot's unharmed, too. I'm ready to take over, after I've cleaned up.'
'Better take a rejuvenation - you probably need it. Everything's going like clockwork. You did a good job with Mendez - a better bargain than I'd hoped for. I've been talking with him on the telaudio, integrating our forces. We'll go into that later, though. Clean up and then make general inspection.'
'Check, sir.'
Rhys clicked off. Scott turned to face his orderly.
'Hello, Briggs. Help me off with these duds. You'll probably have to cut 'em off.'
'Glad to see you back, sir. I don't think it'll be necessary to cut-' Blunt fingers flew deftly over zippers and clasps. 'You were in the jungle?'
Scott grinned wryly. 'Do I look as if I'd been gliding?'
'Not all the way, sir - no.'
Briggs was like an old bulldog - one of those men who proved the truth of the saying: 'Old soldiers never die; they only fade away.' Briggs could have been pensioned off ten years ago, but he hadn't wanted that. There was always a place for old soldiers in the Free Companies, even those who were unskilled. Some became technicians; others military instructors; the rest, orderlies. The forts were their homes. Had they retired to one of the Keeps, they would have died for lack of interests.
Briggs, now - he had never risen above the ranks, and knew nothing of military strategy, ordnance, or anything except plain righting. But he had been a Dooneman for forty years, twenty-five of them on active service. He was sixty-odd now, his squat figure slightly stooped like an elderly bear, his ugly face masked with scar tissue.
'All right. Start the shower, will you?'
Briggs stumped off, and Scott, stripped of his filthy,
sodden garments, followed. He luxuriated under the stinging spray, first hot soapy water, then alcomix, and after that plain water, first hot, then cold. That was the last task he had to do himself. Briggs took over, as Scott relaxed on the slab, dropping lotion into the captain's burning eyes, giving him a deft but murderous rubdown, combining osteopathic and chiropractic treatment, adjusting revitalizing lamps, and measuring a hypo shot to nullify fatigue toxins. When the orderly was finished, Scott was ready to resume his duties with a clear brain and a refreshed body.
Briggs appeared with fresh clothing. Til have the old uniform cleaned, sir. No use throwing it away.'
'You can't clean that,' Scott remarked, slipping into a singlet. 'Not after I rolled in mud. But suit yourself. I won't be needing it for long.'
The orderly's fingers, buttoning Scott's tunic, stopped briefly and then resumed their motion. 'Is that so, sir?'
'Yeah. I'm taking out discharge papers.'
'Another Company, sir?'
'Don't get on your high horse,' Scott told the orderly. 'It's not that. What would you do if it were? Court-martial me yourself and shoot me at sunrise?'
'No, sir. Begging your pardon, sir, I'd just think you were crazy.'
'Why I stand you only the Lord knows,' Scott remarked. 'You're too damn independent. There's no room for new ideas in that plastic skull of yours. You're the quintessence of dogmatism.'
Briggs nodded. 'Probably, sir. When a man's lived by one set of rules for as long as I have, and those rules work out, I suppose he might get dogmatic.'
'Forty years for you - about twelve for me.'
'You came up fast, captain. You'll be cine here yet.'
'That's what you think.'
'You're next in line after Cine Rhys.'
'But I'll be out of the Doones,' Scott pointed out. 'Keep that under your belt, Briggs.'
The orderly grunted. 'Can't see it, sir. If you don't join another Company, where'll you go?'
'Ever heard of the Keeps?'
Briggs permitted himself a respectful snort. 'Sure. They're fine for a binge, but-'
'I'm going to live in one. Montana Keep.'
'The Keeps were built with men and machines. I helped at the building of Doone fort. Blood's mixed with the plastic here. We had to hold back the jungle while the technicians were working. Eight months, sir, and never a day passed without some sort of attack. And attacks always meant casualties then. We had only breastworks. The ships laid down a barrage, but barrages aren't impassable. That was a fight, captain.'
Scott thrust out a leg so that Briggs could lace his boots. 'And a damn good one. I know.' He looked down at the orderly's baldish, brown head where white hairs straggled.
'You know, but you weren't there, captain. I was. First we dynamited. We cleared a half circle where we could dig in behind breastworks. Behind us were the techs, throwing up a plastic wall as fast as they could. The guns were brought in on barges. Lying offshore were the battlewagons. We could hear the shells go whistling over our heads- it sounded pretty good, because we knew things were O.K. as long as the barrage kept up. But it couldn't be kept up day and night. The jungle broke through. For months the smell of blood hung here, and that drew the enemy.'
'But you held them off.'
'Sure, we did. Addison Doone was cine then - he'd formed the Company years before, but we hadn't a fort. Doone fought with us. Saved my life once, in fact. Anyhow - we got the fort built, or rather the techs did. I won't forget the kick I got out of it when the first big gun blasted off from the wall behind us. There was a lot to do after that, but when that shell was fired, we knew we'd done the job.'
Scott nodded. 'You feel a proprietary interest in the fort, I guess.'
Briggs looked puzzled. 'The fort? Why, that doesn't mean
much, captain. There are lots of forts. It's something more than that; I don't quite know what it is. It's seeing the fleet out there - breaking in the rookies - giving the old toasts at mess - knowing that-' He stopped, at a loss.
Scott's lips twisted wryly.
'You don't really know, do you, Briggs?'
'Know what, sir?'
'Why you stay here. Why you can't believe I'd quit.'
Briggs gave a little shrug. 'Well - it's the Doohes,' he said. 'That's all, captain. It's just that.'
'And what the devil will it matter, in a few hundred years?'
'I suppose it won't. No, sir. But it isn't our business to think about that. We're Doonemen, that's all.'
Scott didn't answer. He could easily have pointed out the fallacy of Briggs' argument, but what was the use? He stood up, the orderly whisking invisible dust off his tunic.
'All set, sir. Shipshape.'
'Check, Briggs. Well, I've one more scrap, anyhow. I'll bring you back a souvenir, eh?'