"Fritz Leiber - The Number of the Beast" - читать интересную книгу автора (Leiber Fritz)

Hlilav the Antarean multibrach had received 1024 gold martians, Hrohrakak the Polarian centipedal
1000 gold martians, Fa the Rigelian composite 1728 gold martians. TIik-‘Aa the Martian coleopteroid
666 gold martians.”

“Ah—“ the Old Lieutenant said very soft. “The number Of the beast.”

“Come again, Sean?”

“ ‘Here is wisdom,’” quoted the Old Lieutenant, still speaking very softly. “’Let him that hath
understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man’; Revelation, Jim, the last book
in the Bible.”

“I know that,” the Young Captain burst out excitedly. “I also know the next words, if only because
they’re a favourite with numerology crackpots—of whom I see quite a few at the station. The next words
are: ‘and his number is Six hundred threescore and six.’ Almighty, that’s Tlik-Tcha’s—that’s the number
of his gold martians! And we’ve always known that the League of Beasts got some of its mumbo-jumbo
from Earth, so. why not from it’s Bible? Sean, you clever old devil, I’m going to play your hunch.” The
Young Captain sprang up. ‘I’m going back to the station and have the four of them in and accuse
Tlik-Tcha to his face.”

The Old Lieutenant lifted a hand. “One moment, Jim,” he said sharply. “You’re to go back to the station,
to be sure, and have the four of them in, yes—but you’re to accuse Fa the Rigelian.”

The Young Captain almost sat down again, involunta-rily. “But that doesn’t make sense, Sean,” he
protested. “Fa’s number is 1728. That doesn’t fit your clue. It’s not the number of the beast.”

“Beasts have all sorts of numbers, Jim,” the Old Lieu-tenant said. “The one you want is 1728.”

“But your reason, Sean? Give me your reason.”

“No. There’s no time and you mightn’t believe’ me if I did. You asked for my advice and I’ve given it to
you. Accuse Fa the Rigelian.”

“But—“

that’s all, Jim.”



Minutes later, the Young Captain was still feeling the slow burn of his exasperation, though he was back
at the station and the moment of decision weighed sickeningly upon him. What a foot he’d been, he told
himself sav-agely, to waste his time on such an old dodderer! The serve of the man, giving out with
advice—orders, prac-tically!-—that he refused to justify, behaving with the whimsicality, the
stubbornness—yes, the insolence!—that only the retired man can afford.
 He scanned the four alien faces confronting him across the station desk—Tlik-Tcha’s like a section of
ebon bowl-ing ball down to the three deeply recessed perceptors, Hrohrakak’s a large black-floor mop
faintly quivering, Fa’s pale and humanoid, but oversize, like an emperor’s death mask, Hlilav’s a cluster
of serially blinking eyes and greenish jowls. He wished he could toss them all in a bag and reach
in—wearing an armour-plated glove—and pick one.