Citizen in Spase. Stories / Гражданин в Космосе. Рассказы. Книга для чтения на английском языке

But there’s too many accidents on this job. If someone wanted us to look bad —”

Flynn smiled wolfishly. “I’ll watch him, boss. Don’t worry about this operation. Maybe he’ll join his fishes in the wheat fields.”

“No rough stuff,” Morrison warned.

“Of course not. I understand you perfectly, boss.” The fix foreman swung into his jeep and roared to the front of the convoy. The procession of trucks churned dust for half an hour, and then the last of them was gone. Morrison returned to his tent to fill out progress reports.

But he found he was staring at the radio, waiting for Flynn to report. If only Dengue would do something! Nothing big, just enough to prove he was the man. Then Morrison would have every right to take him apart limb by limb.

It was two hours before the radio buzzed, and Morrison banged his knee answering it.

“This is Rivera. We’ve had some trouble, Mr. Morrison.”

“Go on.”

“The lead Trailbreaker must have got off course.

Don’t ask me how. I thought the chartman knew where he was going. He’s paid enough.”

“Come on, what happened?” Morrison shouted.

“Must have been going over a thin crust. Once the convoy was on it, the surface cracked. Mud underneath, supersaturated with water. Lost all but six trucks.”

“Flynn?”

“We pontooned a lot of the men out, but Flynn didn’t make it.”

“All right,” Morrison said heavily. “All right. Sit there. I’m sending the amphibians out for you.

And listen. Keep hold of Dengue.”

“That’ll be sort of dififcult,” Rivera said.

“Why?”

“Well, you know, he was in that lead Trailbreaker. He never had a chance.”

The men in the work camp were in a sullen, angry mood after their new losses, and badly in need of something tangible to strike at. They beat up a baker because his bread tasted funny, and almost lynched a water-control man because he was found near the big rigs, where he had no legitimate business.

But this didn’t satisfy them, and they began to glance toward the native village.

The stone-age savages had built a new settlement near the work camp, a cliff village of seers and warlocks assembled to curse the skyland demons. Their drums pounded day and night, and the men talked of blasting them out, just to shut them up.

Morrison pushed them on. Roads were constructed, and within a week they crumpled.