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The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) :: Bester Alfred
Страница: 129 из 164Sigurd Magsman was broadcasting terror and anguish with such a telepathic bray that Foyle was forced to shake the child again.
«Shut up!» he whispered. «You can't wake these dead. Now find me Lindsey Joyce.»
«They're sick. . . all sick. . . like worms in their heads. . . worms and sickness and…”
«Christ, don't I know it. Come on, let's get it over with. There's worse to come.»
They went down the twisting labyrinth of the catacombs. The stone slabs shelved the walls from floor to ceiling. The Skoptsys, white as slugs, mute as corpses, motionless as Buddhas, filled the caverns with the odor of living death. The telepathic child wept and shrieked. Foyle never relaxed his relentless grip on him; he never relaxed the hunt.
«Johnson, Wright, Keeley, Graff, Nastro, Underwood . . . God, there's thousands here.» Foyle read off the bronze identification plates attached to the slabs. «Reach out, Sigurd. Find Lindsey Joyce for me. We can't go over them name by name. Regal, Cone, Brady, Vincent…What in the…?»
Foyle started back. One of the bone-white figures had cuffed his brow. It was swaying and writhing, its face twitching. All the white slugs on their shelves were squirming and writhing. Sigurd Magsman's constant telepathic broadcast of anguish and terror was reaching them and torturing them.
«Shut up!» Foyle snapped. «Stop it. Find Lindsey Joyce and we'll get out of here. Reach out and find him.»
«Down there.» Sigurd wept. «Straight down there. Seven, eight, nine shelves down. I want to go home. I'm sick. I…”
Foyle went pell-mell down the catacombs with Sigurd, reading off identification plates until at last he came to: «LINDSEY JOYCE. BOUGAINVILLE. VENUS.»
This was his enemy, the instigator of his death and the deaths of the six hundred from Callisto. This was the enemy for whom he had planned vengeance and hunted for months. This was the enemy for whom he had prepared the agony of the port stateroom aboard his yawl. This was «Vorga.»
It was a woman.
Foyle was thunderstruck. In these days of the double standard, with women kept in purdah, there were many reported cases of women masquerading as men to enter the worlds closed to them, but he had never yet heard of a woman in the merchant marine . . . masquerading her way to top officer rank.
«This?» he exclaimed furiously. «This is Lindsey Joyce? Lindsey Joyce off the 'Vorga'? Ask her.»
«I don't know what 'Vorga' is.»
«Ask her!»
«But I don't…She was. . . She like gave orders.
«Shut up!» he whispered. «You can't wake these dead. Now find me Lindsey Joyce.»
«They're sick. . . all sick. . . like worms in their heads. . . worms and sickness and…”
«Christ, don't I know it. Come on, let's get it over with. There's worse to come.»
They went down the twisting labyrinth of the catacombs. The stone slabs shelved the walls from floor to ceiling. The Skoptsys, white as slugs, mute as corpses, motionless as Buddhas, filled the caverns with the odor of living death. The telepathic child wept and shrieked. Foyle never relaxed his relentless grip on him; he never relaxed the hunt.
«Johnson, Wright, Keeley, Graff, Nastro, Underwood . . . God, there's thousands here.» Foyle read off the bronze identification plates attached to the slabs. «Reach out, Sigurd. Find Lindsey Joyce for me. We can't go over them name by name. Regal, Cone, Brady, Vincent…What in the…?»
Foyle started back. One of the bone-white figures had cuffed his brow. It was swaying and writhing, its face twitching. All the white slugs on their shelves were squirming and writhing. Sigurd Magsman's constant telepathic broadcast of anguish and terror was reaching them and torturing them.
«Shut up!» Foyle snapped. «Stop it. Find Lindsey Joyce and we'll get out of here. Reach out and find him.»
«Down there.» Sigurd wept. «Straight down there. Seven, eight, nine shelves down. I want to go home. I'm sick. I…”
Foyle went pell-mell down the catacombs with Sigurd, reading off identification plates until at last he came to: «LINDSEY JOYCE. BOUGAINVILLE. VENUS.»
This was his enemy, the instigator of his death and the deaths of the six hundred from Callisto. This was the enemy for whom he had planned vengeance and hunted for months. This was the enemy for whom he had prepared the agony of the port stateroom aboard his yawl. This was «Vorga.»
It was a woman.
Foyle was thunderstruck. In these days of the double standard, with women kept in purdah, there were many reported cases of women masquerading as men to enter the worlds closed to them, but he had never yet heard of a woman in the merchant marine . . . masquerading her way to top officer rank.
«This?» he exclaimed furiously. «This is Lindsey Joyce? Lindsey Joyce off the 'Vorga'? Ask her.»
«I don't know what 'Vorga' is.»
«Ask her!»
«But I don't…She was. . . She like gave orders.