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The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) :: Bester Alfred
Страница: 160 из 164Even so, urchins, curio seekers and irresponsibles attempted to jaunte into the wreckage, only to be burned by the induction field and depart, squawking.
At a signal from Y'ang-Yeovil, the field was turned off. Foyle went through the hot rubble to the east wall of the cathedral which stood to a height of fifteen feet. He felt the smoking stones, pressed, and levered. There came a grinding grumble and a three-by-five-foot section jarred open and then stuck. Foyle gripped it and pulled. The section trembled; then the roasted hinges collapsed and the stone panel crumbled.
Two centuries before, when organized religion had been abolished and orthodox worshippers of all faiths had been driven underground, some devout souls had constructed this secret niche in Old St. Pat's and turned it into an altar. The gold of the crucifix still shone with the brilliance of eternal faith. At the foot of the cross rested a small black box of Inert Lead Isotope.
«Is this a sign?» Foyle panted. «Is this the answer I want?»
He snatched the heavy safe before any could seize it. He jaunted a hundred yards to the remnants of the cathedral steps facing Fifth Avenue. There he opened the safe in full view of the gaping crowds. A shout of consternation went up from the Intelligence crews who knew the truth of its contents.
«Foyle!» Dagenham cried.
«For Cod's sake, Foyle!» Y'ang-Yeovil shouted.
Foyle withdrew a slug of PyrE, the color of iodine crystals, the size of a cigarette. . . one pound of transplutonian isotopes in solid solution.
«PyrE!» he roared to the mob. «Take it! Keep it! It's your future. PyrE!» He hurled the slug into the crowd and roared over his shoulder: «SanFran. Russian Hill stage.»
He jaunted St. Louis-Denver to San Francisco, arriving at the Russian Hill stage where it was four in the afternoon and the streets were bustling with late-shopper jaunters.
«PyrE!» Foyle bellowed. His devil face glowed blood red. He was an appalling sight. «PyrE. It's danger! It's death! It's yours. Make them tell you what it is. Nome!» he called to his pursuit as it arrived, and jaunted.
It was lunch hour in Nome, and the lumberjacks jaunting down from the sawmills for their beefsteak and beer were startled by the tiger-faced man who hurled a one pound slug of iodine colored alloy in their midst and shouted in the gutter tongue: «PyrE! You hear me, man? You listen a me, you. PyrE is filthy death for us. Alla us! Grab no guesses, you.
At a signal from Y'ang-Yeovil, the field was turned off. Foyle went through the hot rubble to the east wall of the cathedral which stood to a height of fifteen feet. He felt the smoking stones, pressed, and levered. There came a grinding grumble and a three-by-five-foot section jarred open and then stuck. Foyle gripped it and pulled. The section trembled; then the roasted hinges collapsed and the stone panel crumbled.
Two centuries before, when organized religion had been abolished and orthodox worshippers of all faiths had been driven underground, some devout souls had constructed this secret niche in Old St. Pat's and turned it into an altar. The gold of the crucifix still shone with the brilliance of eternal faith. At the foot of the cross rested a small black box of Inert Lead Isotope.
«Is this a sign?» Foyle panted. «Is this the answer I want?»
He snatched the heavy safe before any could seize it. He jaunted a hundred yards to the remnants of the cathedral steps facing Fifth Avenue. There he opened the safe in full view of the gaping crowds. A shout of consternation went up from the Intelligence crews who knew the truth of its contents.
«Foyle!» Dagenham cried.
«For Cod's sake, Foyle!» Y'ang-Yeovil shouted.
Foyle withdrew a slug of PyrE, the color of iodine crystals, the size of a cigarette. . . one pound of transplutonian isotopes in solid solution.
«PyrE!» he roared to the mob. «Take it! Keep it! It's your future. PyrE!» He hurled the slug into the crowd and roared over his shoulder: «SanFran. Russian Hill stage.»
He jaunted St. Louis-Denver to San Francisco, arriving at the Russian Hill stage where it was four in the afternoon and the streets were bustling with late-shopper jaunters.
«PyrE!» Foyle bellowed. His devil face glowed blood red. He was an appalling sight. «PyrE. It's danger! It's death! It's yours. Make them tell you what it is. Nome!» he called to his pursuit as it arrived, and jaunted.
It was lunch hour in Nome, and the lumberjacks jaunting down from the sawmills for their beefsteak and beer were startled by the tiger-faced man who hurled a one pound slug of iodine colored alloy in their midst and shouted in the gutter tongue: «PyrE! You hear me, man? You listen a me, you. PyrE is filthy death for us. Alla us! Grab no guesses, you.