Текст книги "The Natotevaal Recruits (СИ)"
Автор книги: Андрей Демидов
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 17 страниц) [доступный отрывок для чтения: 7 страниц]
– Something is not working there – Aydem said quietly, breathing in the back of Whitehouse. – Probably because of the fact that we have broken something on our way here.
Meanwhile the cylinder inserted a plug into a socket of the closet and the cave was instantly filled with a roar of sirens, searchlights flashed blindingly below the vault, and all arches leading to the hall were closed with panels of dull metal.
– He raised the alarm! A bastard! – Yelled Mackliff.
He broke away from Dybal and fired the grenade right into the lights of the cylinder. Without waiting for the explosion echo to stop, he started shooting explosive bullets at the crashed mechanism.
Small scraps of metal, tangles of wires and parts got scattered to the winds.
Finally, jet black smoke rose from the mechanical mess and everything blazed crimson. Mackliff continued shooting for some time, showing his ivories, until von Conrad shouted right in his ear: -Joe! Get out! Joe!
To the howl of the sirens they rushed back, but it was too late.
All the exits have already been closed. There was only one way, up the ramp, from where the robot-cylinder came down. At the end of the rise, they collided with two more cylinders. Robots tried to hide in the side aisle, but were shot pointblank and tumbled down to the floor.
–Aaaaaaa! – The five astronauts without thinking or counting on anything, burst into a large room, packed with sophisticated equipment, sensors and display screens. In front of the display with rapidly changing symbols were two operators' chairs on wheels.
A still steaming cup with some flavored drink was on the table.
Within seconds it was all ruined, torn, broken, shot, plastered with explosive gelatin and turned into dust.
The thunder of explosion has not yet ceased, but the attackers had already fled further: among the tinted glass doors, chirping devices and nervously blinking lights of emergency warning.
This devastating advance lasted for a long, endlessly long time, with shooting at flickering, frightened shadows in the side aisles, chopping cables with sharpened machetes, throwing incendiary rockets into computer niches and soft fleecy tracks and shouting. They were intoxicated by the success of their onslaught, they were strong and sure of themselves and they forced their way further down, until at one of the rooms, a fiery zigzag flew at them.
A heavy metal frame of a ridiculous unit behind which they were able to hide, melted and cracked from the blow of the discharge.
Those who blocked the path appeared from behind the acrid smoke.
Slowly, as if reluctantly, the seven-foot monsters were approaching, thrusting thick hands covered in thin tubes, which blasted with short flashes.
Explosive bullets bounced like peas off their sloping helmets with small slits of optical devices, the last grenade ricocheted from the chest of one of the counter-attackers with a wild howl.
– Shoot! Conrad! Ronnie! – Shouted Mackliff, shaking the empty rifle.
–Come on, shoot them! – Shouted Whitehouse, turning a flare into the remains of explosive gelatin.
Dybal shot out the last cartridge and was looking for something heavy. Suddenly, the advancing silhouettes became invisible, like that machine in the grotto. Only vague shapes were slightly distorting space. They were already in some ten paces when Whitehouse cried:
– Get down! – And threw his improvised mine over a pile of smoldering furniture and broken devices. The blasts made the suspended metal ceiling crash down and throw off like a feather two potbellied tanks along with granite curbstones.
The containers cracked, and caustic fuming liquid poured out.
"The most devastating is an explosion in confined space, with momentary excessive pressure of two hundred pounds per square inch, Mr. Chairman of the Examination Committee ..." – a thought flashed in the head of Whitehouse.
Blood gushing from his throat, he fell onto the sprawled body of Aydem.
Nearby lay Mackliff and von Conrad who showed no vital signs, pressed against a collapsed wall.
Dybal was still struggling, crawling somewhere blindly and swallowing the thick dust and fumes. He was clutching softened insulation and the warm metal of collapsed beams with his broken nails; not feeling any pain, he grabbed the broken glass and was brandishing it as if it were a gun. All he could do when strong hands picked him up was to kick someone's invisible body with his boot.
***
– I am yagd Audun Tskugol. My military rank is captain-commander. I am the commander of the Strategic Intelligence Office – a tall man in a gray suit, walked in front of a steel chair, in which dejectedly sat Alexander Dybal.
Navigator"s cheek was diagonally sealed up with yellow tape; a splint was applied to his right leg just above the knee.
His head was pounding as if a cracked bell was inside it; the throat was dry from an unusual flavoring scale of a recent breakfast.
– Ah ... And I thought you were Admiral Nakhimov.
– Admiral? What Admiral? – Captain-Commander raised his eyebrow in surprise. He had thick blond hair, a long face and a tenacious steel look.
A slim, long-haired girl, almost a mulatto from her bronze tan, with straight, regular features entered the room. She laid a pack of thin paper, as if lit from within on the table of Captain-Commander:
– Yagd Tskugol, the internal communication has not yet been repaired after yesterday's attack, and yagd Teague wants to know your opinion on a number of issues, – the girl stared at Dybal with curiosity. – Is it one of those?
– Yes, Shiela. Go. Tell yagd Teague, I'll be ready to three o"clock. Natote!
– Natote – she went out.
Yagd Tskugol quickly looked through the brought papers and sat down in the chair opposite Dybal:
–So, a few questions. I know most of the answers, but it is interesting what you are going to say. Genotype?
–What? – Dybal narrowed the puffy eye.
– Your genotype.
– Chukchi – the navigator made an independent face and started looking at a panel with a ticker bar, which occupied almost the entire wall to the left of the desk.
Some long message kept sliding along the screen, "... is in the lounge, playing billiards ...
Candidate ... number 3. Is in the dining room; mushroom noodles, sour cream, steak with blood, apricots, brandy, cigarettes "Ktorvik."
Candidate ... number 4. Technical Department, viewing programs on wind tunnel management, trying to dismantle a computer-25, in the absence of attendant..."
–Okay, I see you are set to skeptical mood. You just do not understand; do not realize where you are. You have broken into Natootvaal base "Ziem-002", put out two of the three aero-energy tunnels, destroyed almost all robotic repairmen, have completely ruined the operating computers, smashed the post of orbital tracking, and a lot of other stuff. You caused great damage – Captain-Commander spoke so calmly, as if they were discussing the menu for dinner. – The station is completely defenseless against any possible attacks of the Swertz forces for a few days. If not for some circumstances, you would have long been mortified. -he made a pause and continued:
– Well, Alexander, let's go the other way. Take a look at the screen ..., – yagd Tskugol pressed something on the remote to the right of the table, and a fuzzy picture appeared on a flat floor to ceiling screen.
Dybal was surprised to see the "Udarnik" cinema, behind the bridge, a turn to the Alexander Garden, the Kremlin, himself, leaning over the old "Lada", a bottle of champagne in his hand. His mother standing by his side, some smiling people...
– It's you with your mother and several classmates after graduation from MIREA. Your cousin is shooting -, said yagd Tskugol enclosing the image and propped his square chin with his fist – look further: images began to change at a moderate rate. The computer having adjusted to the old photos was surely perfecting them to absolutely clear, colored, holographic images.
Dybal became younger, more serious, and big-headed.
In the last photo, a thoughtful toddler with a lace collar looked from the screen, clutching a huge phone handle in his plump hand.
– Not bad. Quite a detailed dossier – Dybal grinned leaning back in his chair – Do you have a museum named after me? What is it all for?
–We need you.
–As for the meat stew? You have everything. So much high-tech shit here. Why do you need ordinary astronauts? The world is full of those... Bundles and bundles of them... I do not understand... This is nonsense... Well, all right... I"m intrigued... Go ahead, ask your cop-questions... – the navigator gingerly touched his face covered with a plaster.
Tskugol didn"t move a muscle:
–Genotype?
–Russian.
–What would like to do after the contract with NASA?
–Recruit to the new term, if they take me. I love space. You can sit back and mess about for months...For instance I love making poems...
...And only women misses sailor in his tour...
...His dear life he is supposed to cherish,
Love it and rescue as he knows for sure
Those true to her, she wouldn"t leave, they wouldn"t perish...
–What else do you like except the space and poems? – Suddenly perked up the commander.
–My Mother, Father, even though he left us, automatic weapons, my jalopy car, women, smartly illustrated historical anthologies. Nice booze with good friends. That"s all.
–Like that spree at Aguilar"s? – smiled yagd Tskugol inappreciably.
Dybal stared at him perplexedly:
–Are you following me from my birth until now?
–No, just after the collision of "Independence" and "Das Rhein." We are interested in your behavior in extreme situations: the orbital battle with Islamists, the ingenious escape in the dumpsters, your trip through the desert. Our observation probe was constantly following you.
Dybal was thoughtful for a while:
–What about those SAU pilots who crashed into the ground during our search? There was some strange object?
–They have almost found your container. We had to knock down two Coast Guard fighters to give you the opportunity to demonstrate your endurance and perseverance.
–And what if we were to die there in the desert, would not you help us? – the navigator frowned.
–We are not a rescue service. We have other aims. Forget it. Let"s go further. How do you find long trips, lengthy isolation?
–How long are the trips, and how lengthy is the isolation? – Dybal asked, lost in his thoughts.
–Well, for example, if you were to ride without stops in a solo coupe of the "World Express" round-the-world highway for five years?
–When I was on probation period at NASA's training center in Mac Clellen, they treacherously parachuted me to the Alaska taiga for three months. A survival test. I have almost gone nuts there. I came across that grizzly bear there...
–All right, let's continue without wasting words – Captain-Commander smiled again, – What is the amount of cash or other forms of material interest that you rate your professional abilities, provided that you would not be able to spend it on Earth for a long time?
– What do you mean?
–What do you want for the hard work away from home?
–What do you have? – Quickly asked Dybal.
–Everything – yagd Tskugol turned to the running line, which stopped and blinked anxiously at a phrase "candidate-4 Technical Department". Obeying to the button yagd Tskugol pressed, the screen displayed an image, cut in half by some kind of a barrier. On the right, two tall, giant men in overalls with "VH" hash marks, and lightning in their buttonholes, tried to force a door marked "Sector V. Technical Department of energy systems.15367."
On the left side of the barrier, staring at a flexible door, groaning under the pressure was Whitehouse. Bent over gutted insides of a large computer system He quickly wielded a fork:
–Hey, you, out there in the hallway! What do you need? Go away until you got a kick in the face!
The door finally fell down with a crash and several huge creatures in black overalls leaned their weight upon Whitehouse and pushed him by his arms into the hall.
Whitehouse was smiling broadly, having put a pair of torn out informational chips under the cheek in order to destroy them later.
–Your Ronnie is a bully – suddenly said captain commander with satisfaction and leaned to the selector: – Zenklak, take the fourth to me in ten minutes. One of the escort of Whitehouse, nodded to the invisible camera.
–Well, everything is well organized here – said Dybal after a moment's pause. – I just do not understand why did you allow such a rout in the henhouse? You've been watching our group.
–A coincidence. When you were on the way to the Canyon, you were attacked by matilones. They were not attacking you, actually. Somehow they saw one of our patrols, and opened the fire. You have decided that they were shooting at you and returned fire. In the shootout our observation probe was destroyed. Having lost sight of you, we were waiting for you in a totally different place, but your squad came down by the waterfall, near the drift of soil emissions. The drift is almost unprotected as the entrance is always blocked by the bulldozer, which is stronger than any rock. I still do not understand how you managed to slip into the service yard – yagd Tskugol shrugged. – But it only increases our interest in you: this strange ability to make it out alive from absolutely dead situations. Let"s go on. We dwelt on the reward.
–First tell me what kind of work. Excuse my formalism... – said Dybal and rigidly added – if it is associated with treason of Motherland, my village or my alley...then don"t even start. And, first, tell me who you really are, damn it!
–Do not be rude, shithead – said yagd Tskugol without emotion – you behave like a gook...
Dybal looked at the Captain-Commander with some respect, and gently asked:
–Are you Russian?
–Why do you think so? Is it because of the language? You only think that you hear Moscow speech. I speak in kovakt, a common language of Natotevaal. Except kovakt there are two technical dialects; kumit and krozzekh. One is purely military; the other is official, used in government. You are fluent in all three languages, and talk to me in kovakt.
–I didn"t get it... – Dybal"s eyes widened.
–Your subconscious mind, trained in a dream, translates everything to a language convenient for you – which is Russian, and vice versa.
–What about Whitehouse, for instance?
–Tainted-English. Colonel von Conrad, a Lower Saxon dialect. And so on – yagd Tskugol rose from his chair and walked around the office. – Listen to me very carefully. No one is going to talk about it twice.
Yagd Tskugol started telling to the astonished Dybal about the Great War of Natotevaal with the three-galactic empire of Swertz.
About the war, going on for 4725 years by the chronology of the Earth, about the war for dominance in this part of the universe in which they either win or be destroyed and disappear, because the universe is two-track – and it does not have a place to retreat or hide. In a bossy tone Captain-Commander talked about the huge and merciless forces of the Swertz, about the previous war, in which the Swertz have conquered the Shvags and civilization 0015 +, and that only Natotevaal was left alone.
The Swertz have more space, more resources, and their technology is a little more sophisticated. Now the Swertz exceeds Natotevaal in all components; the flight connections VGF, FP0, VPF, planetary armored units and heavy infantry. The only thing, in which Natotevaal is stronger, is its Security Service: the clear, bold, thoughtful operations in the most vulnerable and important space areas that affect the entire course of the war.
The Commandos of Security Council are first-class, elitist units, consisting mainly of mercenaries and the Swertz call these commandos "cold stellar plasma" and "kamikaze." They hate them and at the same time are afraid of them.
Alexander Dybal nodded meaningfully, but everything got mixed up in his mind, the Captain-Commander"s story was too overwhelming.
He finally finished pacing around the table and sat down in his chair:
–You and four of your friends are totally compliant with the initial requirements of the SS HR Office. You are offered to become the "cold stellar plasma."
–And what if I decline this offer? – After a long pause said Dybal.
–You won"t. The super activists do not refuse such proposals. Moreover, protecting Natotevaal, you protect the Earth. In case of our defeat it will also be destroyed, because it is part of the Sol fortified area. Database tracking, uranium mines, patrol rheobases and patrol boats are situated here. Finally, here is the source of our "stellar plasma." People of the Earth are the best commandos.
–Of course, I am quite the adventurous type of person, but that... What about you: are you men or not? – Dybal was slightly confused.
–Not in the conventional sense. Different protein structure, and different structure of – yagd Tskugol smiled, noticing that Dybal stretched in disappointment, taking a slant at the documents brought by long-legged Shiela, who had just entered, floated with dignity, like a center of the universe, – but otherwise, we are exactly like humans. This also applies to women. This aspect probably interests you most...
–Well, that makes a change, yagd Commander, or whatever...But, I want to mention that I have a mother, father, and brother. And Ronnie has two layabout sons, a bunch of mistresses that are crazy about him. Ronald will just wither away without their attention.
–Commandos can go on leave.
–Who... Oh, I see. And where will we live here? At the base?
–Depends on the situation: warships, naval bases, training centers, the enemy planets, and health centers in the Metropolis.
–Good. You almost convinced me. And how about the other guys? Did they have a similar conversation?
–All of them gave their consent. They will start their training in a day. You will be in a special unit. You are so into each other – yagd Tskugol smiled. – Think about it, you have a whole day ahead.
–Can I ask you a question?
–Yes, please.
–Is it possible to send a message to my mother that I am alive?
–Not yet. Due to the recent events in the directories, we conduct mass recruitment of soldiers on the Earth. Agents of the Swertz are closely monitoring our activities here. They rightly associate the recruitment of commandos with a burst of activity on all our battle grounds. Your mother, as well as your friends" relatives will receive official information from NASA that the crew of "Independence" and "Das Rhein" are reported missing.
–Ah, I see how you do it! Not bad. Disappeared, they say, and that's it – Dybal took a glass with something resembling lemonade from the table in front of him and made a sip. – So, if a person dies at war, and they do not find him on the battlefield, does it mean that you have recruited him?
–It is possible. We often take candidates from the battlefields of World Wars, from car and plane crashes, fires, earthquakes, floods. Anticipating a vexing question, I would say that we never provoked these disasters or wars. All that is of your own doings, and of the Swertz agents, who sometimes even try to remove the obvious commandos candidates right on the Earth. Your second container was knocked down by the Swertz submarine. Blast it. We just cannot estimate its dislocation. The Swertz brought it here and packaged in pieces.
–I see. I'll think it over. And if I do not accept the offer...I understand... I cannot decline... Then you will just replace my brains... or something like that...
– Go, Alexander, and try not to do anything stupid, like your pilot Ronnie. He still thinks we are Arabs. Dodger. Gave a false consensus and decided to run away, gathering as much information as possible about the base. But you cannot fool the brain scanners. We know his intentions.
– Dybal got up from his soft chair, which has taken the form of his body for the time of the conversation; reached the door of thick frosted glass in two steps, and turned around:
–You have almost talked me in, Commander. But if you have lied about something, then blame yourself. We are really tough guys.
–I know, I know ... – suddenly laughed yagd Tskugol.
In the hall, the navigator face to face met with Whitehouse and his convoy. Whitehouse conspiratorially winked to Dybal, and, seizing the moment, put two tiny squares of data chips in his palm:
–Do not worry, Al, we"ll break through.
– Ronnie, you are always imagining things. They are not Arabs. Do you understand? Not Arabs. Stop this farce.
Whitehouse reacted strongly:
–And you gave in to them like a cheap whore. Traitor! – Whitehouse lunged forward trying to reach Dybal with his fist, but the convoy quickly banded him tightly and dragged away. – Traitor! Whore!
–Damn it. You can lose your mind like that – growled Dybal not realizing what he actually meant.
He sighed and went to look for Mackliff, Aydem and von Conrad.
***
When Whitehouse was brought in to see yagd Tskugol, captain commander was thoughtfully drawing a silhouette of an assault ship, which was setting for a battle turn on the cover of one of the office folders.
Whitehouse"s squabble with security took him out of his reverie and having erased the paste with a colorless sponge, he took the sheets brought by Shiela:
Digital Coded Telegram VH 35
Confidential level: B
To the Commander of the VH unit
Captain-Commander
Yagd Audun Tskugol
Yagd Captain-Commander!
I bring to your notice that, when the candidates of unit 15R: Dick Aydem, John Mackliff, Ronald Whitehouse, Alexander Dybal, Manfred von Conrad, left the orbit and landed in the area of the desert, in 1105 Kers from the base "Ziem-00", the Swertz agents have taken relatives, friends, co-workers of the candidates under supervision with the intention to capture them during a possible vacation before their leave to the battle ground of Natotevaal.
In this respect, I propose that the candidates of unit 15R should not be granted leave.
16-00.01 Junna, year 4725
from the beginnings of Natotevaal.
Natote!
Yagd Tskugol wrote in a corner of the agent"s telegram "Agreed", and looked at the sullen face of Whitehouse:
–Why did you break the computer in the wind tunnel?
–It has been already broken. I wanted to fix it – lied Whitehouse reluctantly – And then your guys broke in. They behave like idiots... Strong, though...
–If it is the fault of the security, then I apologize to you. And now I have to look through some documents. Do you mind, Ronald?
–I am in no hurry. It"s warm and dry here... – said Whitehouse and pretended to be sleeping.
Yagd Tskugol took the next piece:
Digital Coded Telegram EH 607
Confidential level: B
To the Commander of the VH unit
Captain-Commander
Yagd Audun Tskugol
Yagd Captain-Commander!
I bring to your notice that the Swertz submarine is currently in Hogfors fjord on the coast of Norway, in thirty-five Kers from Hammerfest.
Because of the training of the Norwegian Air Forces and the Navy in the area, lock scanning of the fjord is hardly possible, but all exits are safely controlled by tracking buoys.
After the end of the maneuvers, please provide a backup attack plane type "Kerents" for the destruction of the submarine."
We intend to act from the Franz Josef runway. The success of the operation is guaranteed.
Natote!
22-30.02 Junna, year 4725
from the b. of Natotevaal.
Commander of the tracking unit VH45
Lieutenant Mer Berntern
Yagd Tskugol, having signed the message with his agreement, said quietly:
–Ronald, would you like to work on Earth as a secret agent?
–I am a soldier, not a spy. I'm used to real war, – replied the pilot, lifting up his chin. -Moreover, I do not believe you.
–Here, take a look at this, – Captain Commander handed one of the messages to Whitehouse:
Digital Coded Telegram VH 708
Confidential level: B
to the Commander of the VH unit
Captain-Commander
Yagd Audun Tskugol
Yagd Captain-Commander!
I bring to your notice that today in New York we captured the Swertz agent (salesman Francis John Steinberg), who tried to inquire about the location of the candidate from the 15R unit, Ronald Whitehouse. In this case, there was a real threat to the life of relatives of the candidate.
Currently the brainwashed agent Steinberg has been decoded, but had completely lost his deep and operative memory and is now of no interest to the Department of Counterintelligence.
I propose that in case of capturing the other Swertz agents, we shall apply the method of layered brain scanning in combination with strong tranquilizers.
Natote!
Agent "Cop"
23-00.02 Junna, year 4 725.
from the b. Of Natotevaal.
-Maybe it's a fake. You could have made it yourselves... But, damn it, thanks to you my wife and sons are in mortal danger, and you want me to work for you – roared frenzied Whitehouse,-What the hell! Who are you people thinking you can be hosts on another planet!
–I would like to state that our civilization has been on Earth much longer than you, including your... apelike ancestors – yagd Tskugol said coldly. -So the question should be put this way: what are you doing on this planet? Enough of that. Okay. Stop the tantrum. We will be able to defend your relatives.
Manfred von Conrad slowly followed the instructor.
Aydem and Mackliff walked behind them.
Whitehouse and Dybal closed the rear of the student group and Dybal constantly made fun of the pilot"s obstinate desire to collect information about the base along their way, such as: pieces of wall sheathing, computer parts, lists of personnel, shift schedule, space planning.
–Listen, Ronnie, are you a robot? I have a feeling that something fused in your head – with a smile whispered Dybal to the pilot. -What proof do you need to believe that they are not Arabs?
–My intuition – snapped Whitehouse – I will destroy all of them...
Mackliff and Aydem were busy with another conversation:
–They can"t be human, Dick! Look at their skin. Normally people have either birthmarks or swollen veins here and there, or a slight reddening – a mark from a pimple left from childhood. Sticking out hair after sleep...What about wrinkles? Where are the wrinkles? No wrinkles. Even Tskugol has none on his face. And he looks no less than fifty.
–I agree. They look like mannequins or well edited photos. Have you noticed that when they walk, the silicone floor shakes slightly? Compared to us when they sit on a couch or in a chair it almost reaches the carpet. I have a feeling, John, that they are two times heavier than us.
–It is interesting to learn how it works with women here...– Dybal interfered the conversation.
Von Conrad gave him a withering look over his shoulder.
They walked through a low passage, lit with blue cold lamps.
Ergonomical control panels stretched along the walls, oval doors, with well fitted gaps, numerous large and small lifts, and metallic step ladders, which winded into hollow vertical shafts.
After another passage to the next level, von Conrad, adjusting the collar of his wide crimson shirt with zippers sewn-in the buttonholes, cleared his throat and turned to the instructor:
–Yagd Herr-when will we see the ship?
–We have been walking along its central trunk for a few minutes now, cadet.
Have patience – the instructor said, climbing the metal stairs to the open massive doors. – This is the entrance to the navigation room. The door is equipped with automatic lock-and-block system in case of depressurization or penetration of outsiders. This applies to other doors that lead to especially important rooms.
The instructor bent his head and ducked into the doorway.
Among the horns of a sickle panel, dotted with beads of various keys and buttons, toggle switches, sensors, displays stood several capacious armchairs on high pedestals.
A bored tanned blond guy sat in one of them.
With the indifference of a stone statue he looked at the blinking lights of control devices and smoked a cigarette.
On the screen In front of him glowed a picture of immensely large and long hangar, which was carved in a rock, and service robots swarmed in the glare of floodlights under its vault.
–So, Einar, then she came up and said, "I only share my bed with Commanders. And you're just a paratrooper from the fire support company. So go to the toilet and help yourself with a vibrator "– casually shouted the speaker of internal ship communications.
– Pilot Berserk, – stop discussing private topics immediately. And would you please quit smoking – exclaimed yagd Zherr indignantly, and turned to the cadets. – So, this is the navigator room of the "Tetvuthurts" raider. Power plant engines, course and viewing space scan, all the vital activity of a combat vessel is being directed from here...
Meanwhile Berserk quietly departed behind the cabinets of computers and continued smoking casually, although holding a cigarette behind his back and blowing smoke at the floor.
Having noticed the scrutinizing stare of Whitehouse, he winked and conspiratorially smiled. Whitehouse winked back and felt a warm sensation in his heart; this pilot was not a bad guy, he was a soul mate. Stripes on his sleeve were exactly like the ones he had.
Berserk was also from the Earth.
Manfred von Conrad did not approve of such behavior: he did not say anything but contented himself with a sniff.
He listened to yagd Zherr, the instructor without inquiring.
Since morning he felt that he'd already heard about the intensity of the force field, the range of annihilation weapons; that once he had already seen these flying beads on the screens of surveillance radars, had already with his fingertips touched the switches and keys of cumulative thermonuclear devices.
Everything seemed to be coming back from the past: the intercom circuit, urgent station bill, capacity of fodder troop compartments, berthing arrangement, flights of the forward hangars for receiving transport capsules, power of the reactors, overlapping systems of the conning tower.
Fascinated, overwhelmed with a strange, frightening feeling, he walked through cabin suites, service facilities, compartments of "Tetvuthurts" raider poking into the backs of his comrades, and trying to keep out of yagd Zherr"s sight.
