"E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 25 - The Terridae" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tubb E. C)

check for tracks he heard a soft rustle and spun, snatching at the
knife he carried in his boot, sunlight splintering from the nine
inches of edged and pointed steel.

A rustle, followed by others as a gust of wind stirred the
fronds and filled the somnolent air with the heady scent of their
perfume.

Rising, Dumarest slipped the pack from his shoulders and
eased his way toward the trapped boy. Small and lithe, the lad
would have had little trouble slipping through the brambles, but
three times Dumarest had to slash clear a path. As he reached
the recumbent figure certain things became clear.

The jupon was of cheap material, patched, frayed, the silver
edging nothing but scraps of discarded foil. The bells were of
brass suspended from wires on either wrist. The hose were
covered with darns and the pointed hat had been roughly
made—unmistakable signs of poverty despite their bright show,
matched by the hollow cheeks and the too-bright eyes, the frail
bones of the boy himself. A basket to one side explained his
presence, the container half-full of purple berries; a harvest
painfully won.

"Steady!" The thin ankle trapped in the jaws was mottled with
bruises, blood dappling the hose, evidence of frantic efforts to
pull it free. The knife flashed as Dumarest cut at the tangle of
thorns. "Don't move!"
 Though mute, the lad could hear and understand and he
remained still as Dumarest finished the task and sheathed his
knife. Bells jangled as he lifted the boy and he saw the extended
hand, the determination stamped on the small face.

"You want the fruit, is that it?" He recovered the basket as the
lad nodded. "Here. Can you walk?" He watched as the boy took a
cautious, limping step. "Too slow. I'll carry you."

A heave and the lad was riding on his shoulder, the basket
held firmly in the small hands. Cautiously Dumarest retraced his
path, halting as, again, he heard a soft rustle.

This time there was no wind.

A patch of grass lay to one side and Dumarest moved toward
it, throwing the boy into its softness as again something rustled
close. He turned, ducking. A club aimed at his head missed to
whine through the air, the man holding it thrown off-balance by
the unexpected lack of resistance. He was a grimy, rat-faced man
wearing garments stained green and brown, camouflage
protecting him from the human predators who lurked in the