"Williamson, Jack - 01 - The Humanoids 1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williamson Jack)

He hurried to join the men in the car, and they stopped at the computing section for Ironsmith. No trained fighter, that indolent clerk would be useless in a trap, but Forester wanted to keep an eye on him. He couldn't understand how Ironsmith fitted into this sinister picture, or forget his sick suspicion that the mathematician had been trusted too far.
Sergeant Stone saluted respectfully as they stopped at the main gate, and Forester tried to question him. Years of service must have taught him the protective value of ignorance, however, because he could recall nothing at all unusual, sir, about that little girl in yellow.
Tense at the wheel, Forester drove down the twisting road to the desert and west to Salt City and on across the coast range. Beyond the mountains, they came down through a wall of chill gray fog, to the salt smell and the dull roaring of the sea. Somber with stray thoughts of the supernova and all its consequences, Forester turned south on the coast road.
The round stone tower of the old Dragonrock Light stood dim in the fog, half a mile from the road, on a cragged granite islet still joined to the mainland by the ruin of a storm-shattered causeway. Forester parked the car, as near as he could drive, and nodded at Ironsmith to follow him.
"Set up your rocket launcher in that ditch," he told Armstrong. "Fire without warning at any boat or plane that starts to leave - even if you think we're aboard. If we aren't back in exactly one hour, I want you to blow that tower off the rock. Any contrary order will be sent under duress, and you will ignore it."
"Okay, Chief," Armstrong agreed reluctantly, and looked at his watch. Dodge was already unfolding the tripod mount. Forester gave those two able men a smile of confidence, and then peered mistrustfully at Ironsmith, who was unconcernedly folding a fresh stick of gum into his mouth and tossing away the empty wrapper. Annoyed at his calm, Forester told him curtly to come along.
Grinning pleasantly, Ironsmith started scrambling briskly ahead over the wet, storm-tilted stones of the old causeway, which made an uncomfortable footpath. Forester followed, shivering to the raw bite of the mist-laden wind, and suddenly regretful of his impulsive decision. If this were really a trap, it occurred to him, the Triplanet agents had probably come ashore from a space raider lying underwater off the old lighthouse, and with the fog for a veil they might have him and the secret of the project safe on board long before that hour was up.
"Hello, Dr. Forester!"
The child's voice came to meet them through the mist, thin and high as some plaintive bird- call above the sigh of the wind and the murmur of the sea, and then he saw her standing above them at the base of the crumbling tower, tiny and alone. The wind whipped her thin yellow dress, and her skinny knees were blue and shaking with the cold.



Chapter SIX

FORESTER CLIMBED to meet her, breathless and uneasy.
"Please be careful," she called anxiously. "The rocks are so slick and wet." The gusty wind blew her tiny voice away, and then she was saying, "-waiting to see you. Mr. White said you'd have to come."
Ahead of him, young Ironsmith ran up the spray-drenched rocks to the little girl. He grinned at her, his face pink and shining from the wind and exercise, and murmured something to her, and gave her a stick of chewing gum. Forester thought they seemed too friendly, although he tried to suspend his harsh suspicion when the clerk turned back thoughtfully to help him up the last high step. Greeting him with a timid nod, little Jane Carter trustfully offered Ironsmith her small grimy hand, and led them toward an open archway in the base of the old tower.
"Oh, Mr. White," she called eagerly. "Here they are."
A huge man came stalking out of that dark doorway. He towered a whole head above Forester, and the fiery red of his flowing hair and magnificent beard gave him a kind of vagabond splendor. He moved with a graceful, feline sort of strength, yet the angular planes of his ruddy face looked unyieldingly stubborn.
"We knew you'd be along, Forester, Ironsmith." His soft low voice was deep as the booming of the surf. "Glad you came, because we need you both very badly." He nodded at the dark archway. "Come and meet my associates."
Amiably, Ironsmith shook the big man's offered hand, commenting like a delighted tourist on the bleak grandeur of the view. But Forester stepped back warily, his narrowed eyes looking for a Triplanet agent.
"Just a second!" The fabric and the cut of White's threadbare, silver-colored cloak belonged to no familiar fashion, and his soft accent seemed too carefully accurate to be native. "First, I want to see your papers."
"Sorry, Forester, but we're traveling light." The big man shook his flaming head. "I have no papers."
"But you've got to have papers!" Forester's nervous voice came too thin and high. "Anybody knows that. Every citizen is required to carry a passport from the Security Police. If you're a foreigner - and I think you are - then you aren't allowed off the spaceport without a visa."
"I'm not a citizen." White stood looking down at him with intent, expressionless, bright blue eyes. "But I didn't arrive by ship-"
"Then how-" Forester caught his breath, nodding abruptly at the child. "And how did she get into Starmont?"
The big man chuckled, and the little girl turned from Ironsmith to smile up at him with a shining adoration on her pinched face.
"Jane," he murmured, "has a remarkable accomplishment."
"See here, Mr. White!" A bewildered resentment sharpened Forester's voice. "I don't like all these sinister hints - or your theatrical method of luring us out here. I want to know exactly what you're up to."
"I only want to talk to you." White drawled that disarming explanation. "You are fenced in with red tape. Jane broke it for, me, in a way that made you come here. I assure you that we are not Triplanet spies - and I mean to send you safely back before Armstrong decides to open fire."
Startled, Forester peered back toward the mainland. The gray official car was vague in the fog. He couldn't see the two technicians waiting with their rocket launcher in the ditch beyond. Certainly he couldn't see their names.
"I call myself a philosopher." Beneath the lazy tone, Forester could hear a note of savage vehemence. "That's only a tag, however. Useful when the unsuspecting police of some ill-fated planet want to know my business, but not completely accurate."
"Precisely what is your business?"
"I'm a soldier, really," murmured White. "I'm trying to wage war against a vicious enemy of man. I arrived here quite alone, a few days ago, to gather another force for this final stand."
He gestured at the old stone tower.
"Here's my fortress. And my little army. Three men and a brilliant child. We have our weapons, even if you don't see them. We're training for a last bold assault - for only the utmost, daring can hope to snatch the victory now."
The big man glanced forebodingly up into the driving mist.
"Because we've met reverses," he rumbled solemnly. "Our brave little force is not enough, and our weapons are inadequate. That's where you come in." His penetrating eyes came back to Forester. "Because we must have the help of one or two good rhodomagnetic engineers."
Forester shuddered in icy dismay, for the whole science of rhodomagnetics was still top secret. Even Ironsmith, whose computing section had established so much of the theory, had never been told of the frightful applications. Trying to cover his consternation, he demanded harshly:
"By what authority?"
White's slow smile stopped him.
"Facts are my authority," the big man said. "The fact that I have met this enemy. That I know the danger. That I have a weapon - however still imperfect. That I have not surrendered - and never will!"
"Don't talk riddles." Forester blinked, annoyed, "Who is this enemy, so-called?"
"You will meet it soon," White promised softly, "and you will call it so. It is nothing human, but ruthless and intelligent and almost invincible - because it comes in a guise of utmost benevolence. I'm going to tell you all about it, Forester. I've a sad warning for you. But first I want you to meet the rest of my little band."
He gestured urgently at the black archway. Little Jane Carter took Ironsmith's hand again, and the smiling clerk strolled with her into the darkness of the old tower. White stood aside, waiting for Forester to follow. Glancing up at him, Forester felt a tremor of awe. A queer philosopher, he thought, and a very singular soldier.
Uneasily aware that he had come too far to turn back now, Forester reluctantly entered. The chill wind came after him, and he thought the trap was closing. But the bait still fascinated him, that solemn-eyed child holding Ironsmith's hand. The tower room was round and vaulted, dimly lit from narrow slits of windows. The damp stone walls, black with ancient smoke, were scarred with the names of earlier vandals.
Blinking against the gloom, Forester saw three men, squatting around a small open fire on the stone floor. One was stirring a battered pot, which reeked of garlic. Ironsmith sniffed appreciatively, and the three made room for him and the child to sit on driftwood blocks by the fire. She leaned to warm her hands and Ironsmith smiled genially at the three, but Forester paused in the doorway, incredulous, as White presented the bold little band. For he could see no weapons; the three were only ragged vagabonds, in need of soap and barbering.
The gaunt man stirring the pot was named Graystone. He rose stiffly, a gaunt and awkward scarecrow in rusty black. His angular face was stubbled and cadaverous, with dark sunken eyes and a very red nose.
"Graystone the Great." Bowing with a solemn dignity, he amplified White's introduction. "Formerly a noted stage magician and professional telepath. My act was quite successful until the machine-minded populace lost its interest in the rare treasures of the mind. We welcome your interest in our noble cause."
Lucky Ford was a small man, bald as Forester, crouching close to the fire. His dark cheeks were seamed and wizened, and darker pouches sagged under his narrow shrewd eyes. Squinting up at Forester, he nodded silently.