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The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) :: Bester Alfred
Страница: 102 из 164Y'ang-Yeovil's eyes, sharpened to detect and deduce from minutiae, caught the changein attitude. He realized at once that he had slipped somehow. He signaled to his crew urgently.
A white-hot brawl broke out on the Spanish Stairs. In an instant, Foyle and Robin were caught up in a screaming, struggling mob. The crews of the Intelligence Tong were past masters of this OP-I maneuver, designed to outwit a jaunting world. Their split-second timing could knock any man off balance and strip him for identification. Their success was based on the simple fact that between unexpected assault and defensive response there must always be a recognition lag. Within the space of that lag, the Intelligence Tong guaranteed to prevent any man from saving himself.
In three-fifths of a second Foyle was battered, kneed, hammered across the forehead, dropped to the steps and spread-eagled. The mask was plucked from his face, portions of his clothes torn away, and he was ripe and helpless for the rape of the identification cameras. Then, for the first time in the history of the tong, their schedule was interrupted.
A man appeared, straddling Foyle's body. . . a huge man with a hideously tattooed face and clothes that smoked and flamed. The apparition was so appalling that the crew stopped dead and stared. A howl went up from the crowd on the Stairs at the dreadful spectacle.
«The Burning Man! Look! The Burning Man!»
«But that's Foyle,» Y'ang-Yeovil whispered.
For perhaps a quarter of a minute the apparition stood, silent, burning, staring with blind eyes. Then it disappeared. The man spread-eagled on the ground disappeared too. He turned into a lightning blur of action that whipped through the crew, locating and destroying cameras, recorders, all identification apparatus. Then the blur seized the girl in the Renaissance gown and vanished.
The Spanish Stairs came to life again, painfully, as though struggling out of a nightmare. The bewildered Intelligence crew clustered around Y'ang-Yeovil.
«What in God's name was that, Yeo?»
«I think it was our man. Gully Foyle. You saw that tattooed face.»
«And the burning clothes!»
«Looked like a witch at the stake.»
«But if that burning man was Foyle, who in hell were we wasting our time on?»
«I don't know. Does the Commando Brigade have an Intelligence service they haven't bothered to mention to us?»
«Why the Commandos, Yeo?»
«You saw the way he accelerated, didn't you? He destroyed every record we made.»
«I still can't believe my eyes.»
«Oh, you can believe what you didn't see, all right.
A white-hot brawl broke out on the Spanish Stairs. In an instant, Foyle and Robin were caught up in a screaming, struggling mob. The crews of the Intelligence Tong were past masters of this OP-I maneuver, designed to outwit a jaunting world. Their split-second timing could knock any man off balance and strip him for identification. Their success was based on the simple fact that between unexpected assault and defensive response there must always be a recognition lag. Within the space of that lag, the Intelligence Tong guaranteed to prevent any man from saving himself.
In three-fifths of a second Foyle was battered, kneed, hammered across the forehead, dropped to the steps and spread-eagled. The mask was plucked from his face, portions of his clothes torn away, and he was ripe and helpless for the rape of the identification cameras. Then, for the first time in the history of the tong, their schedule was interrupted.
A man appeared, straddling Foyle's body. . . a huge man with a hideously tattooed face and clothes that smoked and flamed. The apparition was so appalling that the crew stopped dead and stared. A howl went up from the crowd on the Stairs at the dreadful spectacle.
«The Burning Man! Look! The Burning Man!»
«But that's Foyle,» Y'ang-Yeovil whispered.
For perhaps a quarter of a minute the apparition stood, silent, burning, staring with blind eyes. Then it disappeared. The man spread-eagled on the ground disappeared too. He turned into a lightning blur of action that whipped through the crew, locating and destroying cameras, recorders, all identification apparatus. Then the blur seized the girl in the Renaissance gown and vanished.
The Spanish Stairs came to life again, painfully, as though struggling out of a nightmare. The bewildered Intelligence crew clustered around Y'ang-Yeovil.
«What in God's name was that, Yeo?»
«I think it was our man. Gully Foyle. You saw that tattooed face.»
«And the burning clothes!»
«Looked like a witch at the stake.»
«But if that burning man was Foyle, who in hell were we wasting our time on?»
«I don't know. Does the Commando Brigade have an Intelligence service they haven't bothered to mention to us?»
«Why the Commandos, Yeo?»
«You saw the way he accelerated, didn't you? He destroyed every record we made.»
«I still can't believe my eyes.»
«Oh, you can believe what you didn't see, all right.