"George R. R. Martin - And Seven Times Never Kill Man" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

NeKrol shrugged. "That was my very guess, but of course it is
impossible. The Jaenshi work in bone and wood and sometimes metal, but
plastic is centuries beyond them."
"Or behind them," Ryther said. "You say these worship pyramids are
scattered all through the forest?"
"Yes, as far as I have ranged. But the Angels have smashed all those
close to their valley, to drive the Jaenshi away. As they expand, and they
will expand, they will smash others."
Ryther nodded. She looked down into the valley again, and as she did
the last sliver of the Heart of Bakkalon slid below the western rhountains
and the city lights began to come on. The Jaenshi children swung in pools
of soft blue illumi-jnation, and just above the city gates two stick figures
could be seen working. Shortly they heaved something outward, a rope
uncoiled, and then another small dark shadow jerked and twitched
against the wall. "Why?" Ryther said, in a cool voice, watching.
NeKrol was anything but cool. "The Jaenshi tried to defend one of their
pyramids. Spears and knives and rocks against the Steel Angels with lasers
and blasters and screechguns. But they caught them unaware, killed a
man. The Proctor announced it would not happen again." He spat. "Evil.
The children trust them, you see."
"Interesting," Ryther said.
 "Can you do anything?" neKrol asked, his voice agitated. "You have your
ship, your crew. The Jaenshi need a protector, Jannis. They are helpless
before the Angels."
"I have four men in my crew," Ryther said evenly. "Perhaps four hunting
lasers as well." That was all the answer she gave.
NeKrol looked at her helplessly. "Nothing?"
"Tomorrow, perhaps, the Proctor will call on us. He has surely seen the
Lights descend. Perhaps the Angels wish to trade." She glanced again into
the valley. "Come, Arik, we must go back to your base. The trade goods
must be loaded."



Wyatt, Proctor of the Children of Bakkalon on the World of Corlos, was
tall and red and skeletal, and the muscles stood out clearly on his bare
arms. His blue-black hair was cropped very short, his carriage was stiff
and erect. Like all the Steel Angels, he wore a uniform of chameleon cloth
(a pale brown now, as he stood in the full light of day on the edge of the
small, crude spacefield), a mesh-steel belt with hand-laser and
communicator and screechgun, and a stiff red Roman collar. The tiny
figurine that hung on a chain about his neck—the pale child Bakkalon,
nude and innocent and bright-eyed, but holding a great black sword in
one small fist—was the only sign of Wyatt's rank.
Four other Angels stood behind him: two men, two women, all dressed
identically. There was a sameness about their faces, too; the hair always
cropped tightly, whether it was blond or red or brown, the eyes alert and
cold and a little fanatic, the upright posture that seemed to characterize
members of the military-religious sect, the bodies hard and fit. NeKrol,
who was soft and slouching and sloppy, disliked everything about the