[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Gringg, swinging her head back and forth, showing her teeth.
"Cinnamon, get out of there!" he yelled. "Back off!" The Gringg stood waiting
for it, his eyes wide with joy.
Even trained as he was for accurate recall, Cinnamon was not ever able to
describe exactly how the collision came about. One of the horses came out of
the herd, directly toward him. Welcoming, he put out a paw for it to sniff,
but greeting him was not what it intended.
He saw a flash of eye, then teeth, then hard, round hooves flailing at his
face. It cut his muzzle, making him bleed. The hooves struck him in the
shoulder, the chest.
Cinnamon's paw came up to protect his face, and hit the mare's head instead.
Her neck broke with an audible snap.
As Cinnamon watched stunned, she sank to her knees and, rolling to one side,
lay still. A half-grown horse trotted out of the herd and, stopping
uncertainly halfway there, it emitted a tentative whinny, which grew sharper
when there was no reply. Cinnamon realized with horror that this was her
young. He had killed a mother horse and left an orphan.
He threw back his head and wailed his grief. Then the horses began to
stampede!
The instant the wild howling started, Mike and Robin exchanged a look and
raced towards that side of the building. They'd never heard such a sound
before - a cross between a siren and a foghorn, a very insistent and unhappy
foghorn - but they knew it meant trouble.
In the stableyard, there was a penful of hysterical horses hammering
themselves against the far fence, and Mike's two junior associates staring
with horror at the Gringg.
"What happened?" Mike demanded, looking from one to the other.
"Why's he yelling like that?"
"That beast killed a horse,' Bert Gross said, pointing wildly at
Cinnamon, who was sitting on his haunches in the corral beside the body of the
dead mare. "They're dangerous! He broke her neck with one swipe!" He hoped
that Mike would take his story at face value. Neither he nor Errrne wanted to
confess their part in the tragedy.
"Better get Todd,' Robin said grimly.
The Hayuman and Hrruban traders, chafing from their enforced idleness while
waiting for the outcome of the postponed conference, had spent a lot of time
in the pub of the Space Centre. It wasn't a large one, though additions had
been made as trade to Doonarrala increased.
In fact, there was more pub' than space port facility. The ambience of this
small cramped complex was a thousand light years different from the mild
village it bordered, and the pub was a further remove yet.
Ali Kiachif made it a point to drop in at least once a day and swap lies with
whoever was hanging about. Any of his captains who needed to drop a private
word in his ear could find him there and many potential problems were quietly
defused in that milieu.
Fred Horstmann and a couple of the others involved in the conference were
having an afternoon drink with Kiachif.
The subject, as it had been for weeks, was the Gringg.
"I can't guess whether they're funning us or not,' Morwood said.
He was a middle-ranker, a Codep shipper who had been out a fair number of
years. He wanted most of all to get a cargo to ship and leave the planet.
He'd been here far too long.
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"Fun? For fish, flesh, or fowl?" Kiachif asked, ripping the seal off a fresh
bottle of mlada and pouring himself a glassful. "I'd say they're telling the
truth."
"But it sounds like a joke,' Horstmann offered, taking a pull from his beer.
"Hard to believe they'd settle on such simple stuff, if you understand me."
The other traders grinned.
"You've been around Kiachif too long,' Captain Darwin said, looking open and
innocent when the Codep chief turned a surprised glare on him.
"Not so simple, but it's a foot in the door, to be sure, a foot in the door,'
Ali said. "Nothing will do but fresh and new, which will keep our ships in
the space lanes.
I like that well enough, if you follow my reasoning, and you do." The debate
went on, with about two thirds of the spacers firmly in the
Gringg's corner, and the others uncomfortable and unsure of the new aliens'
motivations.
It was shaping up to a fine brawl when Kiachif spotted Jon Greene walking
through the security gate towards the landing bays.
Thank the stars I outrank him, Kiachif thought. I dislike him more than
I hate stale bread and water. And I thought he was sweeties with Grace
Castleton, though you'd think a lass of her rank would have better taste.
Hate to warn her off when she's been looking so happy.
Greene was sure set on roiling up ill-feeling and Kiachif knew, from his
special sources, that the commander'd come an aIm's ace to making an
intergalactic incident happen. Which would have been bad for new trade
possibilities and that was not on in Kiachifs lexicon.
It's time he had a piece of my mind handed him, Kiachif thought.
He gulped what was left in his glass and excused himself.
"I'll be back,' he called to the publican. "Another bottle of the same, to be
waiting." The man snapped the towel he was plying on the inside of a glass
pitcher, and nodded.
The mlada was burning a pleasant warmth in his stomach as he made his way
through the chilly concrete corridors. Kiachif told himself he preferred a
quiet life, but a good mill always helped the blood run warmer. If Greene
didn't tell Kiachif why he was trying so hard to queer things, it wouldn't be
for want of persuasion - of one form or another. He might even persuade him
to show good manners.
Around the corner, the corridor was empty. His prey had a good stride on him,
Greene must be pretty far ahead.
Kiachif passed the control room. He waved a hand in the door, and kept
walking. One of the female technicians, a young woman with chocolate-dark
skin, nodded to him. She was having a quiet talk with someone who wasn't
visible from the doorway. A lover's chat, perhaps?
Kiachif slowed down as he recognized the man's voice: the importunate
Commander Greene.
He doubled back and put his ear next to the door-post.
Whatever was going on in there, it wasn't love talk. He heard Greene say
something about sensors, followed by a low and indistinguishable question.
The woman shook her head.
"No, sir. It's all been by the book, I swear,' she said.
She sounded panicky, and her skin had a moist look of stress Kiachif did not
like to see.
"And the records of the scans have all been filed under coded seals?"
Greene's voice was smooth and low, but there was an unmistakable threat in it.
"Yes, sir." The woman's throat constricted on the second word, sending it up
an octave. Kiachifs eyes went wide.
"Blank that screen!" Greene commanded. Hastily, she reached for the control,
and the sensor pattern she'd been monitoring vanished.
Kiachif hadn't had time for a good look at it, but he fancied he could
Page 138
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
reconstruct it, given time. There'd been three ships on the screen three
ships with the yellow data prints of heavy weaponry.
Heet ships? But where bound, and why?
"It's a crime to reveal secure data to anyone without the correct
classification,' the commander said, continuing his harangue.
"I know that, sir,' the technician said. "I'd never do that, sir."
"Good,' Greene said, standing up and moving into Kiachifs line of sight.
He leaned over her in an ominous fashion. That he scared her was obvious from
her distraught expression. "See that you don't. You are to keep me or
Admiral Barnstable posted on any change, but no one else, do you understand
me? An infraction of the regulations could put you into a one-by-two cell in [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl rafalstec.xlx.pl
Gringg, swinging her head back and forth, showing her teeth.
"Cinnamon, get out of there!" he yelled. "Back off!" The Gringg stood waiting
for it, his eyes wide with joy.
Even trained as he was for accurate recall, Cinnamon was not ever able to
describe exactly how the collision came about. One of the horses came out of
the herd, directly toward him. Welcoming, he put out a paw for it to sniff,
but greeting him was not what it intended.
He saw a flash of eye, then teeth, then hard, round hooves flailing at his
face. It cut his muzzle, making him bleed. The hooves struck him in the
shoulder, the chest.
Cinnamon's paw came up to protect his face, and hit the mare's head instead.
Her neck broke with an audible snap.
As Cinnamon watched stunned, she sank to her knees and, rolling to one side,
lay still. A half-grown horse trotted out of the herd and, stopping
uncertainly halfway there, it emitted a tentative whinny, which grew sharper
when there was no reply. Cinnamon realized with horror that this was her
young. He had killed a mother horse and left an orphan.
He threw back his head and wailed his grief. Then the horses began to
stampede!
The instant the wild howling started, Mike and Robin exchanged a look and
raced towards that side of the building. They'd never heard such a sound
before - a cross between a siren and a foghorn, a very insistent and unhappy
foghorn - but they knew it meant trouble.
In the stableyard, there was a penful of hysterical horses hammering
themselves against the far fence, and Mike's two junior associates staring
with horror at the Gringg.
"What happened?" Mike demanded, looking from one to the other.
"Why's he yelling like that?"
"That beast killed a horse,' Bert Gross said, pointing wildly at
Cinnamon, who was sitting on his haunches in the corral beside the body of the
dead mare. "They're dangerous! He broke her neck with one swipe!" He hoped
that Mike would take his story at face value. Neither he nor Errrne wanted to
confess their part in the tragedy.
"Better get Todd,' Robin said grimly.
The Hayuman and Hrruban traders, chafing from their enforced idleness while
waiting for the outcome of the postponed conference, had spent a lot of time
in the pub of the Space Centre. It wasn't a large one, though additions had
been made as trade to Doonarrala increased.
In fact, there was more pub' than space port facility. The ambience of this
small cramped complex was a thousand light years different from the mild
village it bordered, and the pub was a further remove yet.
Ali Kiachif made it a point to drop in at least once a day and swap lies with
whoever was hanging about. Any of his captains who needed to drop a private
word in his ear could find him there and many potential problems were quietly
defused in that milieu.
Fred Horstmann and a couple of the others involved in the conference were
having an afternoon drink with Kiachif.
The subject, as it had been for weeks, was the Gringg.
"I can't guess whether they're funning us or not,' Morwood said.
He was a middle-ranker, a Codep shipper who had been out a fair number of
years. He wanted most of all to get a cargo to ship and leave the planet.
He'd been here far too long.
Page 137
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"Fun? For fish, flesh, or fowl?" Kiachif asked, ripping the seal off a fresh
bottle of mlada and pouring himself a glassful. "I'd say they're telling the
truth."
"But it sounds like a joke,' Horstmann offered, taking a pull from his beer.
"Hard to believe they'd settle on such simple stuff, if you understand me."
The other traders grinned.
"You've been around Kiachif too long,' Captain Darwin said, looking open and
innocent when the Codep chief turned a surprised glare on him.
"Not so simple, but it's a foot in the door, to be sure, a foot in the door,'
Ali said. "Nothing will do but fresh and new, which will keep our ships in
the space lanes.
I like that well enough, if you follow my reasoning, and you do." The debate
went on, with about two thirds of the spacers firmly in the
Gringg's corner, and the others uncomfortable and unsure of the new aliens'
motivations.
It was shaping up to a fine brawl when Kiachif spotted Jon Greene walking
through the security gate towards the landing bays.
Thank the stars I outrank him, Kiachif thought. I dislike him more than
I hate stale bread and water. And I thought he was sweeties with Grace
Castleton, though you'd think a lass of her rank would have better taste.
Hate to warn her off when she's been looking so happy.
Greene was sure set on roiling up ill-feeling and Kiachif knew, from his
special sources, that the commander'd come an aIm's ace to making an
intergalactic incident happen. Which would have been bad for new trade
possibilities and that was not on in Kiachifs lexicon.
It's time he had a piece of my mind handed him, Kiachif thought.
He gulped what was left in his glass and excused himself.
"I'll be back,' he called to the publican. "Another bottle of the same, to be
waiting." The man snapped the towel he was plying on the inside of a glass
pitcher, and nodded.
The mlada was burning a pleasant warmth in his stomach as he made his way
through the chilly concrete corridors. Kiachif told himself he preferred a
quiet life, but a good mill always helped the blood run warmer. If Greene
didn't tell Kiachif why he was trying so hard to queer things, it wouldn't be
for want of persuasion - of one form or another. He might even persuade him
to show good manners.
Around the corner, the corridor was empty. His prey had a good stride on him,
Greene must be pretty far ahead.
Kiachif passed the control room. He waved a hand in the door, and kept
walking. One of the female technicians, a young woman with chocolate-dark
skin, nodded to him. She was having a quiet talk with someone who wasn't
visible from the doorway. A lover's chat, perhaps?
Kiachif slowed down as he recognized the man's voice: the importunate
Commander Greene.
He doubled back and put his ear next to the door-post.
Whatever was going on in there, it wasn't love talk. He heard Greene say
something about sensors, followed by a low and indistinguishable question.
The woman shook her head.
"No, sir. It's all been by the book, I swear,' she said.
She sounded panicky, and her skin had a moist look of stress Kiachif did not
like to see.
"And the records of the scans have all been filed under coded seals?"
Greene's voice was smooth and low, but there was an unmistakable threat in it.
"Yes, sir." The woman's throat constricted on the second word, sending it up
an octave. Kiachifs eyes went wide.
"Blank that screen!" Greene commanded. Hastily, she reached for the control,
and the sensor pattern she'd been monitoring vanished.
Kiachif hadn't had time for a good look at it, but he fancied he could
Page 138
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
reconstruct it, given time. There'd been three ships on the screen three
ships with the yellow data prints of heavy weaponry.
Heet ships? But where bound, and why?
"It's a crime to reveal secure data to anyone without the correct
classification,' the commander said, continuing his harangue.
"I know that, sir,' the technician said. "I'd never do that, sir."
"Good,' Greene said, standing up and moving into Kiachifs line of sight.
He leaned over her in an ominous fashion. That he scared her was obvious from
her distraught expression. "See that you don't. You are to keep me or
Admiral Barnstable posted on any change, but no one else, do you understand
me? An infraction of the regulations could put you into a one-by-two cell in [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]