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The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) :: Bester Alfred
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«Nobody can.»
«There ought to be a law. Forrest, you said? Right here.»
He landed them before a Swiss chalet set in an acre of gardens and took off, mumbling to himself. Foyle and Robin stepped before the door of the house, waiting for the monitor to pick them up and announce them. Instead, the door flashed red, and a white skull and crossbones appeared on it. A canned voice spoke: «WARNING. THIS RESIDENCE IS MANTRAPPED BY THE LETHAL DEFENSE CORPORATION OF SWEDEN. R:77-z3. YOU HAVE BEEN LEGALLY NOTIFIED.»
«What the hell?» Foyle muttered. «On New Year's Eve? Friendly fella. Let's try the back.»
They walked around the chalet, pursued by the skull and crossbones flashing at intervals, and the canned warning. At one side, they saw the top of a cellar window brightly illuminated and heard the muffled chant of voices: «The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . .
«Cellar Christians!» Foyle exclaimed. He and Robin peered through the window. Thirty worshippers of assorted faiths were celebrating the New Year with a combined and highly illegal service. The twenty-fourth century had not yet abolished God, but it had abolished organized religion.
«No wonder the house is man-trapped,» Foyle said. «Filthy practices like that. Look, they've got a priest and a rabbi, and that thing behind them is a crucifix.»
«Did you ever stop to think what swearing is?» Robin asked quietly. «You say 'Jesus' and 'Jesus Christ.' Do you know what that is?»
«Just swearing, that's all. Like 'ouch' or 'damn.»
«No, it's religion. You don't know it, but there are two thousand years of meaning behind words like that.»
«This is no time for dirty talk,» Foyle said impatiently. «Save it for later. Come on.»
The rear of the chalet was a solid wall of glass, the picture window of a dimly lit, empty living room.
«Down on your face,» Foyle ordered. «I'm going in.»
Robin lay prone on the marble patio. Foyle triggered his body, accelerated into a lightning blur, and smashed a hole in the glass wall. Far down on the sound spectrum he heard dull concussions. They were shots. Quick projectiles laced toward him. Foyle dropped to the floor and tuned his ears, sweeping from low bass to supersonic until at last he picked up the hum of the Man-Trap control mechanism. He turned his head gently, pin-pointed the location by binaural D/F, wove in through the stream of shots and demolished the mechanism. He decelerated.
«Come in, quick!»
Robin joined him in the living room, trembling.
«Nobody can.»
«There ought to be a law. Forrest, you said? Right here.»
He landed them before a Swiss chalet set in an acre of gardens and took off, mumbling to himself. Foyle and Robin stepped before the door of the house, waiting for the monitor to pick them up and announce them. Instead, the door flashed red, and a white skull and crossbones appeared on it. A canned voice spoke: «WARNING. THIS RESIDENCE IS MANTRAPPED BY THE LETHAL DEFENSE CORPORATION OF SWEDEN. R:77-z3. YOU HAVE BEEN LEGALLY NOTIFIED.»
«What the hell?» Foyle muttered. «On New Year's Eve? Friendly fella. Let's try the back.»
They walked around the chalet, pursued by the skull and crossbones flashing at intervals, and the canned warning. At one side, they saw the top of a cellar window brightly illuminated and heard the muffled chant of voices: «The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . .
«Cellar Christians!» Foyle exclaimed. He and Robin peered through the window. Thirty worshippers of assorted faiths were celebrating the New Year with a combined and highly illegal service. The twenty-fourth century had not yet abolished God, but it had abolished organized religion.
«No wonder the house is man-trapped,» Foyle said. «Filthy practices like that. Look, they've got a priest and a rabbi, and that thing behind them is a crucifix.»
«Did you ever stop to think what swearing is?» Robin asked quietly. «You say 'Jesus' and 'Jesus Christ.' Do you know what that is?»
«Just swearing, that's all. Like 'ouch' or 'damn.»
«No, it's religion. You don't know it, but there are two thousand years of meaning behind words like that.»
«This is no time for dirty talk,» Foyle said impatiently. «Save it for later. Come on.»
The rear of the chalet was a solid wall of glass, the picture window of a dimly lit, empty living room.
«Down on your face,» Foyle ordered. «I'm going in.»
Robin lay prone on the marble patio. Foyle triggered his body, accelerated into a lightning blur, and smashed a hole in the glass wall. Far down on the sound spectrum he heard dull concussions. They were shots. Quick projectiles laced toward him. Foyle dropped to the floor and tuned his ears, sweeping from low bass to supersonic until at last he picked up the hum of the Man-Trap control mechanism. He turned his head gently, pin-pointed the location by binaural D/F, wove in through the stream of shots and demolished the mechanism. He decelerated.
«Come in, quick!»
Robin joined him in the living room, trembling.