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The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) :: Bester Alfred
Страница: 93 из 164The Cellar Christians were pouring up into the house somewhere, emitting the sounds of martyrs.
«Wait here,» Foyle grunted. He accelerated, blurred through the house, located the Cellar Christians in poses of frozen flight, and sorted through them. He returned to Robin and decelerated.
«None of them is Forrest,» he reported. «Maybe he's upstairs. The back way, while they're going out the front. Come on!»
They raced up the back stairs. On the landing they paused to take bearings. «Have to work fast,» Foyle muttered. «Between the shots and the religion riot, the world and his wife'll be jaunting around asking questions…” He broke off. A low mewling sound came from a door at the head of the stairs. Foyle sniffed.
«Analogue!» he exclaimed. «Must be Forrest. How about that? Religion in the cellar and dope upstairs.»
«What are you talking about?»
«I'll explain later. In here. I only hope he isn't on a gorilla kick.»
Foyle went through the door like a diesel tractor. They were in a large, bare room. A heavy rope was suspended from the ceiling. A naked man was entwined with the rope midway in the air. He squirmed and slithered down the rope, emitting a mewling sound and a musky odor.
«Python,» Foyle said. «That's a break. Don't go near him. He'll mash your bones if he touches you.»
Voices below began to call: «Forrest! What's all the shooting? Happy New Year, Forrest! Where in hell's the celebration?»
«Here they come,» Foyle grunted «Have to jaunte him out of here. Meet you back at the beach. Go!»
He whipped a knife out of his pocket, cut the rope, swung the squirming man to his back and jaunted. Robin was on the empty Jervis beach a moment before him. Foyle arrived with the squirming man oozing over his neck and shoulders like a python, crushing him in a terrifying embrace. The red stigmata suddenly burst out on Foyle's face.
«Sinbad,» he said in a strangled voice. «Old Man of the Sea. Quick girl! Right pockets. Three over. Two down. Sting ampule. Let him have it anywh…” His voice was choked off.
Robin opened the pocket, found a packet of glass beads and took them out. Each bead had a bee-sting end. She thrust the sting of an ampule into the writhing man's neck. He collapsed. Foyle shook him off and arose from the sand.
«Christ!» he muttered, massaging his throat. He took a deep breath. «Blood and bowels. Control,» he said, resuming his air of detached calm. The scarlet tattooing faded from his face.
«What was all that horror?» Robin asked.
«Analogue.
«Wait here,» Foyle grunted. He accelerated, blurred through the house, located the Cellar Christians in poses of frozen flight, and sorted through them. He returned to Robin and decelerated.
«None of them is Forrest,» he reported. «Maybe he's upstairs. The back way, while they're going out the front. Come on!»
They raced up the back stairs. On the landing they paused to take bearings. «Have to work fast,» Foyle muttered. «Between the shots and the religion riot, the world and his wife'll be jaunting around asking questions…” He broke off. A low mewling sound came from a door at the head of the stairs. Foyle sniffed.
«Analogue!» he exclaimed. «Must be Forrest. How about that? Religion in the cellar and dope upstairs.»
«What are you talking about?»
«I'll explain later. In here. I only hope he isn't on a gorilla kick.»
Foyle went through the door like a diesel tractor. They were in a large, bare room. A heavy rope was suspended from the ceiling. A naked man was entwined with the rope midway in the air. He squirmed and slithered down the rope, emitting a mewling sound and a musky odor.
«Python,» Foyle said. «That's a break. Don't go near him. He'll mash your bones if he touches you.»
Voices below began to call: «Forrest! What's all the shooting? Happy New Year, Forrest! Where in hell's the celebration?»
«Here they come,» Foyle grunted «Have to jaunte him out of here. Meet you back at the beach. Go!»
He whipped a knife out of his pocket, cut the rope, swung the squirming man to his back and jaunted. Robin was on the empty Jervis beach a moment before him. Foyle arrived with the squirming man oozing over his neck and shoulders like a python, crushing him in a terrifying embrace. The red stigmata suddenly burst out on Foyle's face.
«Sinbad,» he said in a strangled voice. «Old Man of the Sea. Quick girl! Right pockets. Three over. Two down. Sting ampule. Let him have it anywh…” His voice was choked off.
Robin opened the pocket, found a packet of glass beads and took them out. Each bead had a bee-sting end. She thrust the sting of an ampule into the writhing man's neck. He collapsed. Foyle shook him off and arose from the sand.
«Christ!» he muttered, massaging his throat. He took a deep breath. «Blood and bowels. Control,» he said, resuming his air of detached calm. The scarlet tattooing faded from his face.
«What was all that horror?» Robin asked.
«Analogue.