"Robert F. Young - Flying Pan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

 She had lit the table lamp when she came in, and its beams splashed reassuringly on the living-room
rug. But beyond the aura of the light, shadows lay along the walls, coalesced in the bedroom doorway.
Marianne stood up, concentrating on the sound. The more she listened the more she doubted that she
was being victimized by the neighborhood small fry: the ticks came too regularly to be ascribed to a pin
dangling at the end of a string. First there would be a staccato series of them, then silence, then another
series. Moreover, her bedroom window was six stories above the street and nowhere near a fire
escape.
But if the small fry weren't responsible for the sound, who was? There was an excellent way to find
out. Marianne forced her legs into motion, walked slowly to the bedroom doorway, switched on the
ceiling light and entered the room. A few short steps brought her to the window by her bed.
She peered through the glass. Something gleamed on the window ledge but she couldn't make out
what it was. The ticking noise had ceased and traffic sounds drifted up from below. Across the way, the
warm rectangles of windows made precise patterns in the darkness, and down the street a huge sign said
in big blue letters: SPRUCK'S CORN PADS ARE THE BEST.
Some of Marianne's confidence returned. She released the catch and slowly raised the window. At
first she didn't recognize the gleaming object as a flying saucer; she took it for an upside-down frying pan
without a handle. And so ingrained was the habit by now that she reached for it instinctively, with the
unconscious intention of putting a handle on it.
"Don't touch my ship!"
That was when Marianne saw the spaceman. He was standing off to one side, his diminutive helmet
glimmering in the radiance of SPRUCK'S CORN PADS. He wore a gray, formfitting space suit replete
with ray guns, shoulder tanks, and boots with turned-up toes, and he was every bit of five inches tall. He
had drawn one of the ray guns (Marianne didn't know for sure they were ray guns, but judging from the
rest of his paraphernalia, what else could they be?) and was holding it by the barrel. It was clear to
Marianne that he had been tapping on the window with it.
It was also clear to Marianne that she was going, or had gone, out of her mind. She started to close
the window—"Stop, or I'll burn you!"
Her hands fell away from the sash. The voice had seemed real enough, a little on the thin side,
perhaps, but certainly audible enough. Was it possible? Could this tiny creature be something more than a
figment?
He had changed his gun to his other hand, she noticed, and its minute muzzle pointed directly at her
forehead. When she made no further move, he permitted the barrel to drop slightly and said, "That's
better. Now if you'll behave yourself and do as I say, maybe I can spare your life."
"Who are you?" Marianne asked. It was as though he had been awaiting the question. He stepped
dramatically into the full radiance of the light streaming through the window and sheathed his gun. He
bowed almost imperceptibly, and his helmet flashed like the tinsel on a gum wrapper. "Prince Moy
Trehano," he said majestically, though the majesty was marred by the thinness of his voice, "Emperor of
10,000 suns, Commander of the vast space fleet which is at this very moment in orbit around this
insignificant planet you call `Earth'!"
"Wh—why?"
"Because we're going to bomb you, that's why!"
"But why do you want to bomb us?"
"Because you're a menace to galactic civilization! Why else?"
"Oh," Marianne said.
"We're going to blow your cities to smithereens. There'll be so much death and destruction in our
wake that you'll never recover from it. . . . Do you have any batteries?"
For a moment Marianne thought she had misunderstood. "Batteries?"
"Flashlight batteries will do." Prince Moy Trehano seemed embarrassed, though it was impossible to
tell for sure because his helmet completely hid his face. There was a small horizontal slit where,
presumably, his eyes were, but that was the only opening. "My atomic drive's been acting up," he went