"E. C. Tubb - Death Is A Dream" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tubb E. C)

 "Anything—?"

"No." Saul didn't wait for Tog to ask the inevitable question. "Some junk machinery, boilers for
heating I think. Some packing cases, a little wire, a few heaps of rust. Some bones, too," he added as an
afterthought. "Not many—the rats could have been busy, or few made it in time. Not that it did them any
good." He shrugged at the scavenger's expression. "Sorry, Tog, but there isn't a thing in there worth the
trouble of digging out."

"Damn!" Tog sensed the disappointment of his men and it added to his own. "Is the structure what
we're looking for?"

"No." Saul was emphatic. "The walls are concrete, the beams metal. The thing can't be more than four
hundred years old."

"No hewn stone? No overbuilding or incorporating of an older structure?"

"No." Saul eased the helmet from his head. His hair was damp with perspiration. He didn't look at the
scavenger. "And nothing below, either. The floor is solid—I tested it with sonar. It's another bust, Tog."

Another bust. Two flopped expeditions and now this—still nothing after the sixth attempt, despite the
most careful planning and preliminary investigation. Tog looked down at his hands—they were clenched
into fists at his sides. Deliberately he opened them, spreading and flexing the fingers, taking deep breaths
to quell his anger.

"All right," he decided. "Well have a conference. Get cleaned up and report to my tent. You," he
snapped to the lifeman. "Find that retro and report to me in an hour." He was being impolite but things
were too serious for him to worry about trifles. "The rest of you scatter and see what you can find.
Move!"


The retro was arrogant. He came into the tent, tall, thin and emaciated with long hours of fasting and
prayer, the deep-set eyes in his tonsured skull burning with a fanatical light. Despite the chill of early
spring, open sandals framed dirty feet. He was naked beneath his habit. A massive crucifix hung from a
leather belt, and in his hands he carried a rosary of large wooden beads.

Tog gestured toward a chair.

"Sit down, Elkan," he said. "You've—"

"My name is not Elkan." His voice was harsh. "I am Brother Ambrose of the Most Holy Order of—"

"All right," snapped Tog. "I know who you are."

He felt his anger rising and fought for control. Damn these retros! It was one thing to have
memories—he had them himself—but to literally live a previous existence was something he couldn't
understand. And from the look of Elkan, it hadn't been such a wonderful time. Nothing but fasting and
prayer and… He shook his head. Such thoughts were getting him nowhere.

"You have failed," said Brother Ambrose. His voice and eyes were scornful. "Six times you have tried
and each time the hand of Satan has misguided your efforts. Once again I exhort you to—"