" Perry Rhodan 0110 - (102) Spoor of the Antis" - читать интересную книгу автора (Perry Rhodan)

TOP COM M AND CRISIS


FEVERISH HASTE

Research Project "Liquitiv" is being pushed forward in feverish haste.

For what was at first merely a mission for a few agents of Division 3, has developed into a
desperate situation that has the leaders of the Solar Empire holding their frightened breaths.

Terra, the colonial planets and the Arkon worlds find they have been lulled into a false sense
of security by the scientists of two Imperiums who have made a disastrous error in their
analyses of the long-range effects on human and Arkonides of Liquitiv.

The hope of multiple worlds now rests on–


SPOOR OF THE ANTIS


1/ LAST LAUGH



SHEER DESPERATION.

Mulvaney’s plan had been born of sheer desperation.

From a legal standpoint, of course, it was purely reprehensible because it involved the possibility of
having to murder old man Lansing. In a normal state of mind it would never have occurred to Mulvaney
to kill another person. However, his condition had entered a phase now which made rational thinking
impossible: he was approaching the brink of insanity.

Lansing himself was not the cause of such a motivation—no one had any reason for hating old man
Lansing. Mulvaney’s real objective involved a few plastic flasks which he suspected his intended victim
kept in his possession. And of course it could not be presumed that Lansing would hand the flasks over
of his own free will. After the Government had clamped down on the sale and distribution of the liqueur,
any remaining supplies of it had been hoarded tenaciously by the owners. It was only a matter of time
until the last little bottles of Liquitiv would be consumed by their addicted users.

But Henry Mulvaney wasn’t thinking of this. Nor was he thinking any more of the fact that more than 50
million Terrans were now addicted as he was and would do or commit anything to obtain the liqueur.

With trembling hands he grasped the top of Lansing’s patio wall. The hour was after midnight. The street
was lonely and deserted. Albert Lansing was an oddball recluse and a crank, an invalid who was
paralysed from the waist down. Every day the old shut-in had a robot servant with him but it did not stay
there at night. The robot was the only compromise Lansing had ever made with modem technological
advancements. His wheelchair was the old-fashioned kind with large wheels on either side for
hand-power locomotion but similar automatic models could hardly match the skill and swiftness with
which Lansing manipulated his familiar vehicle.