"Andre Norton - Warlock Trilogy - Storm over Warlock" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

should be very sure that route was closed before he retreated.

Since any additional fuss the clak-claks might make on sighting him would be undistinguished in their now
general clamor, the Terran crawled on to where tall grass provided a screen at the top of the slope. There he
stopped short, his hands digging into the earth in sudden braking action.

Below, the ground steamed from a rocket flare-back, grasses burned away from the fins of a small
scoutship. But even as Shann rose to one knee, his shout of welcome choked in his throat. One of those
fins sank, canting the ship crookedly, preventing any new take-off. And over the crown of a low hill to the
west swung the ominous black plate of a Throg flyer.

The Throg ship came up in a burst of speed, and Shann waited tensely for some countermove from the
scout. Those small speedy Terran ships were prudently provided with weapons triply deadly in proportion
to their size. He was sure that the Terran ship could hold its own against the Throg, even eliminate the
enemy. But there was no fire from the slanting pencil of the scout. The Throg circled warily, obviously
expecting a trap. Twice it darted back in the direction from which it had come. As it returned from its
second retreat, another of its kind showed, a black coin dot against the amber of the sky.

Shann felt sick inside. Now the Terran scout had lost any advantage and perhaps all hope. The Throgs
could box the other in, cut the downed ship to pieces with their energy beams. He wanted to crawl away
and not witness this last disaster for his kind. But some stubborn core of will kept him where he was.

The Throgs began to circle while beneath them the flock of clak-claks screamed and dived at the slanting
nose of the Terran ship. Then that same slashing energy he had watched quarter the camp snapped from the
far plate across the stricken scout. The man who had piloted her, if not dead already (which might account
for the lack of defense), must have fallen victim to that. But the Throg was going to make very sure. The
second flyer halted, remaining poised long enough to unleash a second bolt—dazzling any watching eyes
and broadcasting a vibration to make Shann’s skin crawl when the last faint ripple reached his lookout
post.

What happened then caught the overconfident Throg by surprise. Shann cried out, burying his face on his
arm, as pinwheels of scarlet light blotted out normal sight. There was an explosion, a deafening blast. He
cowered, blind, unable to hear. Then, rubbing at his eyes, he tried to see what had happened.

Through watery blurs he made out the Throg ship, not swinging now in serene indifference to Warlock’s
gravity, but whirling end over end across the sky as might a leaf tossed in a gust of wind. Its rim caught
against a rust-red cliff, it rebounded and crumpled. Then it came down, smashing perhaps half a mile away
from the smoking crater in which lay the mangled wreckage of the Terran ship. The disabled scout pilot
must have played a last desperate game, making his ship bait for a trap.

The Terran had taken one Throg with him. Shann rubbed again at his eyes, just barely able to catch a
glimpse of the second ship flashing away westward. Perhaps it was only his impaired sight, but it appeared
to him that the Throg followed an erratic path, either as if the pilot feared to be caught by a second shot, or
because that ship had also suffered some injury.

Acid smoke wreathed up from the valley making Shann retch and cough. There could be no survivor from
that Terran scout, and he did not believe that any Throg had lived to crawl free of the crumpled plate. But
there would be other beetles swarming here soon. They would not dare to leave the scene unsearched. He
wondered about that scout. Had the pilot been aiming for the Survey camp, the absence of any rider beam
from there warning him off so that he made the detour which brought him here? Or had the Throgs tried to