"A. E. Van Vogt - Slan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Van Vogt A E)

strength of maturity, the alertness of slan adulthood.
His mother's thoughts stabbed through his reflections: 'There are some ahead of us now,
Jommy, and others coming across the street. You'll have to go, darling. Don't forget what
I've told you. You live for one thing only: to make it possible for slans to live normal lives. I
think you'll have to kill our great enemy, Kier Gray, even if it means going to the grand
palace after him. Remember, there'll be shouting and confusion, but keep your head. Good
luck, Jommy.'
Not until she had released his hand, after one quick squeeze, did Jommy realize that the
tenor of her thoughts had changed. The fear was gone. A soothing tranquillity flowed from
her brain, quieting his jumping nerves, slowing the pounding of his two hearts.
As Jommy slipped into the shelter made by a man and a woman walking past them, he
had a glimpse of men bearing down on the tall figure of his mother, looking very ordinary
and very human in her slacks and pink blouse, and with her hair caught up in a tightly
knotted scarf. The men, dressed in civilian clothes, were crossing the street, their faces dark
with an expression of an unpleasant duty that had to be done. The thought of that
unpleasantness, the hatred that went with it, was a shadow in their minds that leaped out at
Jommy. It puzzled him even in this moment when he was concentrating on escape. Why was
it necessary that he should die? He and this wonderful, sensitive, intelligent mother of his! It
was all terribly wrong.
A car, glittering like a long jewel in the sun, flashed up to the curb. A man's harsh voice
called loudly after Jommy: 'Stop! There's the kid. Don't let that kid get away! Stop that boy!'
People paused and stared. He felt the bewildering mildness of their thoughts. And then he
had rounded the corner and was racing along Capital Avenue. A car was pulling away from
the curb. His feet pattered with mad speed. His abnormally strong fingers caught at the rear
bumper. He pulled himself aboard and hung on as the car swung into the maze of traffic and
began to gather speed. From somewhere behind came the thought: 'Good luck, Jommy.'
For nine years she had schooled him for this moment, but something caught in his throat
as he replied: 'Good luck, Mother.'
The car went too fast, the miles reeled off too swiftly. Too many people paused in the
street and stared at the little boy clinging so precariously to the shining bumper. Jommy felt
the intensity of their gazes, the thoughts that whipped into their minds and brought jerky,
shrill shouts to their lips. Shouts to a driver who didn't hear.
Mists of thought followed him then, of people who ran into public booths and telephoned
the police about a boy caught on a bumper. Jommy squirmed, and his eyes waited for a
patrol car to swing in behind and flag the speeding auto to a halt. Alarmed, he concentrated
his mind for the first time on the car's occupants.
Two brain vibrations poured out at him. As he caught those thoughts, Jommy shuddered,
and half lowered himself toward the pavement, prepared to let go. He looked down, then
dizzily pulled himself back into place. The pavement was a sickening blur, distorted by the
car's speed.
Reluctantly, his mind fumbled into contact again with the brains of the men in the car.
The thoughts of the driver were concentrated on his task of maneuvering the machine. The
man thought once, flashingly, of a gun carried in a shoulder holster. His name was Sam
Enders, and he was the chauffeur and bodyguard of the man beside him -- John Petty, chief
of the secret police of the all-powerful Kier Gray.
The police chiefs identity penetrated through Jommy like an electric shock. The notorious
slan hunter sat relaxed, indifferent to the speed of the car, his mind geared to a slow,
meditative mood.
Extraordinary mind! Impossible to read anything in it but a blur of surface pulsations. It
wasn't, Jommy thought, amazed, as if John Petty could be consciously guarding his