"E. C. Tubb - Stardeath" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tubb E. C)

Someone manned the scanner which monitored his cell, checked his reactions, took notes, and gathered
data on which to base an opinion -- the unseen opponent in a game he could not hope to win.
 Against his shoulders he felt a new vibration, an alteration in background level which grew stronger
as if someone traversed the passages leading toward him. Varl tensed imperceptibly, readying himself for
potential action. Behind the blank mask of his face his mind spun. The sound could mean nothing or have
another cell as its target -- a routine visit from a medic or minor official to some unfortunate who had tried
to kill himself and who had, as most of them did, failed.
Varl sharpened his senses as the vibrations grew stronger, hope flowering with the growing
conviction that his cell was their objective. Not one man, that was hoping for too much. Not even two; he
forced himself to relax as he counted three sets of footsteps. One in the cell, one just outside, the third
placed some distance down the passage to act as general cover. He could kill one, perhaps even two,
but the third would bring him down before he could get within reach. Unless the man could be lured
close, tricked into dropping his guard in some way -- if the chance came he would take it!
He stretched and slipped from the bunk as the footsteps halted beyond the door. He swayed as he
hit the floor and turned toward the bowl. As the door opened he spun, one hand lifted to the dressing on
his temple, to slump and lie sprawled on the floor.
"Careful!" The oldest of the two at the door snapped a warning. "He's a killer, remember. Don't take
any chances."
"Cover me." His companion stepped into the cell and stooped over the limp figure. "He's out.
Delayed shock, I guess, and that crack on the head couldn't have helped any."
"He could be bluffing." The elder guard looked up at the light inset in the ceiling. "Check wanted on
recent actions -- report!"
"Prisoner remained quiet after regaining consciousness," the unseen watcher said over the speaker in
the ceiling. "He seemed dazed a little and sat as if meditating. Slept some, I guess; at least I didn't see him
move."
"Not at all?"
"Not while I was watching. I've fifty others on my panel to keep an eye on."
"Then what?" The eldest guard frowned at the delay in the other's response. "What happened when
we arrived?"
"He got down from the bunk and headed toward the bowl. I guess he was thirsty. He stopped when
you opened up and turned toward the door. Then he went down. Hell, you saw that. Could have been
sudden nausea. He's had it rough lately."
"The bastard asked for it." The guard glowered at his companion busy over the slumped figure. "Any
change?"
"None. Skin flaccid and chill. Some perspiration. Breathing shallow. No response to pain stimuli."
He displayed the pin he had used to dig beneath a nail. "Maybe if we got him on the bunk it would help."
"It would look better."
"Well? I can't manage him alone."
"And my back won't allow me to lift a weight like that." The older guard yelled down the passage.
"Hans! Give a hand here! Hurry!"
"Sick?" The third guard looked at the prisoner when he arrived. "Or did you deck him?"
"He hasn't been touched. Give Frank a hand to lift him on the bunk." He stepped back. "All right,
you two, get on with it."
He watched as they stooped, heaving, to lift the man from the floor and rest him on the bunk. A
moment later they relaxed, easing their backs and stretching, forgetting the danger inherent in a desperate
man, realizing it too late.
Hans dropped, retching as a stiffened hand rose to stab at his throat, his breath a harsh and labored
rasping as he fought to draw air through a ruptured larynx. Frank joined him, unconscious, the nerves in
his neck impacted by the side of a hand like a blunted ax. The older guard backed as Varl rose and
lunged toward him; his mouth opened to yell a warning, one hand fumbling at his belt. The hand froze and