"Robert F. Young - Invitation to the Waltz" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

 He screamed, "You can't reach me! My suit is impervious!"
Shrill laughter spurted from her blood-red mouth, shattering the strains of Strauss. He backed away,
but not before her long crimson nails raked his chest. Horrified, he turned and ran from the floor. At the
mouth of the corridor, he paused and looked back. He glimpsed her just before she blended back into
the shadows of the far side of the room. Or perhaps back into the shadows of his mind.
He remained for a full hour in the absolute-zero vacuum of the boat bay. A purification rite.
Immediately after passing through the hatch-locks into the patrol craft, he removed his suit and all his
clothing and jettisoned them through the disposal tube. An unnecessary precaution, perhaps, but he was
taking no chances. He threw his raze pistol in after them; then he went directly to the shower, where he
lathered himself with the strongest antibacterial soap the supply closet contained. After rinsing and drying
himself, he anointed his entire body with isopropyl. He gargled with mouthwash till he nearly gagged.
Wearing fresh clothing, seated once again in the cockpit, he permitted himself a single sigh of relief. Then
he went to work.
He retroed five hundred kilometers, turned the patrol craft broadside and centered the distant twinkle
of the catellite on the cross hairs of the starboard cannon. The first hit turned the station into a crimson
flower; the second reduced it to cosmic dust. He allowed himself another sigh of relief; then he
programmed the A.P. to resume its original course and began recording a Report of Incident and Action.
By the time he finished, "night" was on hand.
D'etoile slept the maximum seven hours that regulations permitted, but upon awakening he did not
feel refreshed. When he stood up on the deck, he found himself swaying and he had difficulty getting into
his clothes. Dressed, he forgot briefly where he was; then, remembering, he stepped into the tiny galley
and made coffee. He gazed for some time at the familiar trio of extragalactic nebulae glowing palely in the
galley viewscreen before he remembered that the galley had no viewscreen. Aghast, he backed out of the
room.
He heard a faint rustling, as of a woman's gown. Turning, he beheld her standing in the narrow
passageway. She was grinning. The flesh of her face was half gone; her heaped-up hair had matted and
strands had broken free and fell to her decaying shoulders. She reached out a bony hand to touch his
face, but he saw it only vaguely through the dark tertiary curtain that fell before his gaze. He found himself
lying on the deck, listening to her laughter. It was superseded, during his last moment, by the strains of
Wein, Weib und Gesang.