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The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) :: Bester Alfred
Страница: 18 из 164They closed and grappled.
They found Foyle inside, crawling like a headless worm through a junk heap of spaceship and home furnishings. He was bleeding again, ripe with stinking gangrene, and one side of his head was pulpy. They brought him into the sick bay aboard the cruiser and carefully curtained his tank. Foyle was no sight even for the tough stomachs of lower deck navy men.
They patched his carcass in the amniotic tank while they completed their tour of duty. On the jet back to Terra, Foyle recovered consciousness and bubbled words beginning with V. He knew he was saved. He knew that only time stood between him and vengeance. The sick bay orderly heard him exulting in his tank and parted the curtains. Foyle's filmed eyes looked up. The orderly could not restrain his curiosity.
«You hear me, man?» he whispered.
Foyle grunted. The orderly bent lower.
«What happened? Who in hell done that to you?»
«What?» Foyle croaked.
«Don't you know?»
«What? What's a matter, you?»
«Wait a minute, is all.»
The orderly disappeared as he jaunted to a supply cabin, and reappeared alongside the tank five seconds later. Foyle struggled up out of the fluid. His eyes blazed.
«It's coming back, man. Some of it. Jaunte. I couldn't jaunte on the 'Nomad,' me.»
«What?»
«I was off my head.»
«Man, you didn't have no head left, you.»
«I couldn't jaunte. I forgot how, is all. I forgot everything, me. Still don't remember much. I…”
He recoiled in terror as the orderly thrust the picture of a hideous tattooed face before him. It was a Maoni mask. Cheeks, chin, nose, and eyelids were decorated with stripes and swirls. Across the brow was blazoned NOMAD. Foyle stared, then cried out in agony. The picture was a mirror. The face was his own.
CHAPTER THREE
«BRAVO, MR. HARRIS! Well done! L-E-S, gentlemen. Never forget. Location. Elevation. Situation. That's the only way to remember your jaunte co-ordinates. Etre entre le marteau et l'enclume. French. Don't jaunte yet, Mr. Peters. Wait your turn. Be patient, you'll all be C class by and by. Has anyone seen Mr. Foyle? He's missing. Oh, look at that heavenly brown thrasher. Listen to him. Oh dear, I'm thinking all over the place . . . or have I been speaking, gentlemen?»
«Half and half, m'am.»
«It does seem unfair. One-way telepathy is a nuisance. I do apologize for shrapneling you with my thoughts.»
«We like it, m'am. You think pretty.»
«How sweet of you, Mr. Gorgas.
They found Foyle inside, crawling like a headless worm through a junk heap of spaceship and home furnishings. He was bleeding again, ripe with stinking gangrene, and one side of his head was pulpy. They brought him into the sick bay aboard the cruiser and carefully curtained his tank. Foyle was no sight even for the tough stomachs of lower deck navy men.
They patched his carcass in the amniotic tank while they completed their tour of duty. On the jet back to Terra, Foyle recovered consciousness and bubbled words beginning with V. He knew he was saved. He knew that only time stood between him and vengeance. The sick bay orderly heard him exulting in his tank and parted the curtains. Foyle's filmed eyes looked up. The orderly could not restrain his curiosity.
«You hear me, man?» he whispered.
Foyle grunted. The orderly bent lower.
«What happened? Who in hell done that to you?»
«What?» Foyle croaked.
«Don't you know?»
«What? What's a matter, you?»
«Wait a minute, is all.»
The orderly disappeared as he jaunted to a supply cabin, and reappeared alongside the tank five seconds later. Foyle struggled up out of the fluid. His eyes blazed.
«It's coming back, man. Some of it. Jaunte. I couldn't jaunte on the 'Nomad,' me.»
«What?»
«I was off my head.»
«Man, you didn't have no head left, you.»
«I couldn't jaunte. I forgot how, is all. I forgot everything, me. Still don't remember much. I…”
He recoiled in terror as the orderly thrust the picture of a hideous tattooed face before him. It was a Maoni mask. Cheeks, chin, nose, and eyelids were decorated with stripes and swirls. Across the brow was blazoned NOMAD. Foyle stared, then cried out in agony. The picture was a mirror. The face was his own.
CHAPTER THREE
«BRAVO, MR. HARRIS! Well done! L-E-S, gentlemen. Never forget. Location. Elevation. Situation. That's the only way to remember your jaunte co-ordinates. Etre entre le marteau et l'enclume. French. Don't jaunte yet, Mr. Peters. Wait your turn. Be patient, you'll all be C class by and by. Has anyone seen Mr. Foyle? He's missing. Oh, look at that heavenly brown thrasher. Listen to him. Oh dear, I'm thinking all over the place . . . or have I been speaking, gentlemen?»
«Half and half, m'am.»
«It does seem unfair. One-way telepathy is a nuisance. I do apologize for shrapneling you with my thoughts.»
«We like it, m'am. You think pretty.»
«How sweet of you, Mr. Gorgas.