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

Angels.
Proctor Wyatt had arrived shortly after dawn, sending one of his squad
to pound on the door of the small gray prefab bubble that was neKrol's
trading base and home. Sleepy and angry, but with a guarded politeness,
the trader had risen to greet the Angels, and had escorted them out to the
center of the spacefield, where the scarred metal teardrop of the Lights of
Jolostar squatted on three retractable legs.
The cargo ports were all sealed now; Ryther's crew had spent most of
the evening unloading neKrol's trade goods and replacing them in the
ship's hold with crates of Jaenshi artifacts that might bring good prices
from collectors of extraterrestrial art. No way of knowing until a dealer
looked over the goods; Ryther had dropped neKrol only a year ago, and
this was the first pickup.
"I am an independent trader, and Arik is my agent on this world,"
Ryther told the Proctor when she met him on the edge of the field. "You
must deal through him."
"I see," Proctor Wyatt said. He still held the list he had offered Ryther,
of goods the Angels wanted from the industrialized colonies on Avalon and
Jamison's World. "But neKrol will not deal with us."
Ryther looked at him blankly.
"With good reason," neKrol said. "I trade with the Jaenshi, you
slaughter them."
The Proctor had spoken to neKrol often in the months since the Steel
Angels had established their city-colony, and the talks had all ended in
arguments; now he ignored him. "The steps we took were needed," Wyatt
said to Ryther. "When an animal kills a man, the animal must be
punished, and other animals must see and learn, so that beasts may know
that man, the seed of Earth and child of Bakkalon, is the lord and master
of them all."
NeKrol snorted. "The Jaenshi are not beasts, Proctor, they are an
intelligent race, with their own religion and art and customs, and they ..."
Wyatt looked at him. "They have no soul. Only the children of Bakkalon
have souls, only the seed of Earth. What mind they may have is relevant
only to you, and perhaps them. Soulless, they are beasts."
"Arik has shown me the worship pyramids they build," Ryther said.
"Surely creatures that build such shrines must have souls."
The Proctor shook his head. "You are in error in your belief. It is written
clearly in the Book. We, the seed of Earth, are truly the children of
Bakkalon, and no others. The rest are animals, and in Bakkalon's name we
must assert our dominion over them."
"Very well," Ryther said. "But you will have to assert your dominion
without aid from the Lights of Jolostar, I'm afraid. And I must inform
you, Proctor, that I find your actions seriously disturbing, and intend to
report them when I return to Jamison's World."
"I expected no less," Wyatt said. "Perhaps by next year you will burn
with love of Bakkalon, and we may talk again. Until then, the world of
Corlos will survive." He saluted her, and walked briskly from the field,
followed by the four Steel Angels.
 "What good will it do to report them?" neKrol said bitterly, after they
had gone.