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The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) :: Bester Alfred
Страница: 11 из 164He punched a flare button labelled: RESCUE. From the hull of the «Nomad» shot a sunlet that burst and hung, flooding miles of space with harsh white light.
«Come on, baby you,» Foyle crooned. «Hurry up, man. Come on, baby baby you.»
Like a ghost torpedo, the stranger slid into the outermost rim of light, approaching slowly, looking him over. For a moment Foyle's heart constricted; the ship was behaving so cautiously that he feared she was an enemy vessel from the Outer Satellites. Then he saw the famous red and blue emblem on her side, the trademark of the mighty industrial clan of Presteign; Presteign of Terra, powerful, munificent, beneficent. And he knew this was a sister ship, for the «Nomad» was also Presteign-owned. He knew this was an angel from space hovering over him.
«Sweet sister,» Foyle crooned. «Baby angel, fly away home with me.»
The ship came abreast of Foyle, illuminated ports along its side glowing with friendly light, its name and registry number clearly visible in illuminated figures on the hull: Vorga-T:i339. The ship was alongside him in a moment, passing him in a second, disappearing in a third.
The sister had spurned him; the angel had abandoned him.
Foyle stopped dancing and crooning. He stared in dismay. He leaped to the flare panel and slapped buttons. Distress signals, landing, take-off, and quarantine flares burst from the hull of the «Nomad» in a madness of white, red and green light, pulsing, pleading . . . and «Vorga-T:i 339» passed silently and implacably, stern jets flaring again as it accelerated on a sunward course.
So, in five seconds, he was born, he lived, and he died. After thirty years of existence and six months of torture, Gully Foyle, the stereotype Common Man, was no more. The key turned in the lock of his soul and the door was opened. What emerged expunged the Common Man forever.
«You pass me by,» he said with slow mounting fury. «You leave me rot like a dog. You leave me die, 'Vorga' . . . 'Vorga-T:i 339.' No. I get out of here, me. I follow you, 'Vorga.' I find you, 'Vorga.' I pay you back, me. I rot you. I kill you, 'Vorga.' I kill you filthy.»
The acid of fury ran through him, eating away the brute patience and sluggishness that had made a cipher of Gully Foyle, precipitating a chain of reactions that would make an infernal machine of Gully Foyle. He was dedicated.
«'Vorga,' I kill you filthy.»
He did what the cipher could not do; he rescued himself.
For two days he combed the wreckage in five-minute forays, and devised a harness for his shoulders.
«Come on, baby you,» Foyle crooned. «Hurry up, man. Come on, baby baby you.»
Like a ghost torpedo, the stranger slid into the outermost rim of light, approaching slowly, looking him over. For a moment Foyle's heart constricted; the ship was behaving so cautiously that he feared she was an enemy vessel from the Outer Satellites. Then he saw the famous red and blue emblem on her side, the trademark of the mighty industrial clan of Presteign; Presteign of Terra, powerful, munificent, beneficent. And he knew this was a sister ship, for the «Nomad» was also Presteign-owned. He knew this was an angel from space hovering over him.
«Sweet sister,» Foyle crooned. «Baby angel, fly away home with me.»
The ship came abreast of Foyle, illuminated ports along its side glowing with friendly light, its name and registry number clearly visible in illuminated figures on the hull: Vorga-T:i339. The ship was alongside him in a moment, passing him in a second, disappearing in a third.
The sister had spurned him; the angel had abandoned him.
Foyle stopped dancing and crooning. He stared in dismay. He leaped to the flare panel and slapped buttons. Distress signals, landing, take-off, and quarantine flares burst from the hull of the «Nomad» in a madness of white, red and green light, pulsing, pleading . . . and «Vorga-T:i 339» passed silently and implacably, stern jets flaring again as it accelerated on a sunward course.
So, in five seconds, he was born, he lived, and he died. After thirty years of existence and six months of torture, Gully Foyle, the stereotype Common Man, was no more. The key turned in the lock of his soul and the door was opened. What emerged expunged the Common Man forever.
«You pass me by,» he said with slow mounting fury. «You leave me rot like a dog. You leave me die, 'Vorga' . . . 'Vorga-T:i 339.' No. I get out of here, me. I follow you, 'Vorga.' I find you, 'Vorga.' I pay you back, me. I rot you. I kill you, 'Vorga.' I kill you filthy.»
The acid of fury ran through him, eating away the brute patience and sluggishness that had made a cipher of Gully Foyle, precipitating a chain of reactions that would make an infernal machine of Gully Foyle. He was dedicated.
«'Vorga,' I kill you filthy.»
He did what the cipher could not do; he rescued himself.
For two days he combed the wreckage in five-minute forays, and devised a harness for his shoulders.