"ab Hugh, Dafydd & Linaweaver, Brad - Doom 04 - Endgame 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (ab Hugh Dafydd)

buck, fooling with the buttons. I stared, reminded of
about a thousand and one cheesy sci-fi movies that
Arlene regularly made me watch while she gave run-
ning commentary about which star's sister was the
mistress of the head of Wildebeest Studios. ("Jeez, it's
Dr. Mabuse," whispered Arlene in my ear.)
"Try question them now," suggested Sears and
Roebuck, pretending for their own peace of mind that
there were really two Fred aliens instead of one. As a
double-entity, Sears and Roebuck never had been able
to deal with beings other than in pairs, pairs of pairs,
and so forth: they had no trouble dealing with Fly and
Arlene, but when it was Fly and Arlene and Captain
Hidalgo, Sears and Roebuck threw a fit!
I cleared my throat. "State your name for the
record," I began, just trying to provoke some response
from the Fred.
"I will be Ramakapithduraagnazdifleramakanor—"
"You will henceforth be designated Rumplestilt-
skin," I decided. Damned if I were going to try to
repeat that horrible squabble of sound! "Rumplestilt-
skin, I am Taggart. You may also be questioned by
Sanders and by Sears and Roebuck. You will answer
all questions, or we'll leave you immobile on the
planet surface forever."
"Rumplestiltskin responds. What if he answers
questions from the Taggart?"
"You'll be disintegrated and your spirit will be sent
wherever it goes upon disintegration."
"Rumple bumple mumple humple .. ."
"Do you accept the terms?"
"Rumplestiltskin answers questions. Bumple."
I sighed. I had to keep reminding myself we were
peering directly into the brain of a Fred—a Fred that
had lain dead for God knows how long, slowly going
mad.
In fact, that was a good first question. "Rumplestilt-
skin: how long have you lain beneath the rubble?"
"Rubble bubble wubble tubble—"
"Rumplestiltskin will answer the question!"
"I—I—I—I—I—Rumplestiltskin answers ques-
tions. Rumplestiltskin lay for 19,392 suns."
Arlene tapped at her watch calculator again. "This
planet rotates four hundred and twelve times per
orbit, so that's forty-seven Fredyears plus twenty-
eight Freddays."
"What's that in dog years?" I asked.
"For us, that's about forty years, six months."
"Jesus. Rumplestiltskin, were your people attacked
nineteen thousand suns ago?"