David Starr Space Ranger - Isaac Asimov, ebook, Temp
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David Starr-Space Ranger – Lucky Starr 01 Isaac Asimov FAIR FIGHT David said, “I’ll see you in the dome if you wish. Meanwhile, step aside.” He walked forward unhurriedly, and Griswold stepped back. “You stupid greenhorn. We can’t have a fist-fight with nosepieces on.” “Take your nosepiece off, then,” said David, “and I’ll take mine off. Stop me in fair fight, if you can.” “Fair fight!” came the approving shout from the crowd, and Bigman yelled, “Put up or back down, Griswold.” He leaped forward, slipping Griswold’s blaster from his hip. David put his hand to his nosepiece. “Ready?” Bigman called, “I’ll count three.” Bigman began counting, “One—“ And at the count of “Three” David quietly removed his nosepiece and tossed it, with the attached cylinders, to one side. He stood there, unprotected, holding his breath against the unbearable atmosphere of Mars... By Isaac Asimov Published by Ballantine Books: THE CLASSIC FOUNDATION SERIES; Foundation Page 1 Foundation and Empire Second Foundation Foundation’s Edge THE GALACTIC EMPIRE MOVELS: The Stars, Like Dust, The Currents Of Space, Febble In The Sky THE CAVES OF STEEL THE NAKED SUN I, ROBOT THE WINDS OF CHANGE LUCKY STARR AMD THE BIG SUN OF MERCURY DAVID STARR SPACE RANGER Isaac Asimov writing as Paul French A Del Key Book BALLANTINE BOOKS • HEW YORK RLI- VL: 7 + up IL: 8 + up A Del Rey Book Published by Ballantine Books Copyright © 1952 by Doubleday and Company, Inc. Preface Copyright © 1978 by Isaac Asimov All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resem-blance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. ISBN 0-345-31541-3 This edition published by arrangement with Doubleday and Company, Inc. Manufactured in the United States of America First Ballantine Books Edition: April 1984 Cover art by Page 2 Darrell K. Sweet CONTENTS The Plum from Mars The Breadbasket in the Sky Men for the Farms of Mars Alien Life Dinnertime “Sand Away!” Bigman Makes a Discovery Night Meeting Into the Fissure Birth of the Space Ranger The Storm The Missing Piece The Council Takes Over “I Am the Space Ranger!” The Space Ranger Takes Over Solution Preface Page 3 Back in the 1950s, I wrote a series of six derring-do novels about David “Lucky” Starr and his battles against malefactors within the Solar System. Each of the six took place in a different region of the system, and in each case I made use of the astronomical facts—as they were then known. Now, more than a quarter-century later, these novels are being published in new editions; but what a quarter-century it has been! More has been learned about the worlds of our Solar System in this last quarter-century than in all the thousands of years that went before. DAVID STARR: SPACE RANGER was written in 1951 and at that time, there was still a faint possibility that there were canals on Mars, as had first been reported three-quarters of a century earlier. There was, therefore, a faint possibility that intelligent life existed there, or had existed at one time. Since then, though, we have sent probes past Mars and around it to take photographs of its surface, and map the entire planet. In 1976, we even landed small laboratories on the Martian surface to test its soil. There are no canals. There are instead, craters, giant volcanoes and enormous canyons. The atmosphere is only 1 percent as dense as Earth’s and is almost entirely carbon dioxide. There is no clear sign of any life at all upon Mars, and the possibility of advanced life upon it, now or ever, seems nil. If I had written the book today, I would have had to adjust the plot to take all this into account. I hope my Gentle Readers enjoy the book anyway, as an adventure story, but please don’t forget that the advance of science can outdate even the most conscientious science-fiction writer and that my astronomical descriptions are no longer accurate in all respects. Isaac Asimov 1 The Plum from Mars David Starr was staring right at the man, so he saw it happen. He saw him die. David had been waiting patiently for Dr. Henree and, in the meanwhile, enjoying the atmosphere of International City’s newest restaurant. This was to be his first real celebration now that he had obtained his degree and qualified for full membership in the Council of Science. He did not mind waiting. The Cafe Supreme still glistened from the freshly applied chromosilicone paints. The subdued light that spread evenly over the entire dining room had no visible source. At the wall end of David’s table was the small, self-glowing cube which contained a tiny three-dimensional replica of the band whose music filled in a soft background. The leader’s baton was a half-inch flash of motion and of course the table top itself was of the Sanito type, the ultimate in force-field modernity and, ex-cept for the deliberate flicker, quite invisible. Page 4 David’s calm brown eyes swept the other tables, half-hidden in their alcoves, not out of boredom, but because people interested him more than any of the scientific gadgetry that the Cafe Supreme could gather. Tri-television and force-fields were wonders ten years before, yet were already accepted by all. People, on the other hand, did not change, but even now, ten thousand years after the pyramids were built and five thousand years after the first atom bomb had exploded, they were still the insoluble mystery and the unfaded wonder. There was a young girl in a pretty gown laughing gently with the man who sat opposite her; a middle-aged man, in uncomfortable holiday clothing, punching the menu combination on the mechanical waiter while his wife and two children watched gravely; two businessmen talking animatedly over their dessert. And it was as David’s glance flicked over the busi-nessmen that it happened. One of them, face congest-ing with blood, moved convulsively and attempted to rise. The other, crying out, stretched out an arm in a vague gesture of help, but the first had already col-lapsed in his seat and was beginning to slide under the table. David had risen to his feet at the first sign of dis-turbance and now his long legs ate the distance be-tween the tables in three quick strides. He was in the booth and, at a touch of his finger on the electronic contact near the tri-television cube, a violet curtain with fluorescent designs swept across the open end of the alcove. It would attract no attention. Many diners preferred to take advantage of that sort of privacy. The sick man’s companion only now found his voice. He said, “Manning is ill. It’s some sort of seizure. Are you a doctor?” David’s voice was calm and level. It carried assurance. He said, “Now sit quietly and make no noise. We will have the manager here and what can be done will be done.” He had his hands on the sick man, lifting him as though he were a rag doll, although the man was heavyset. He pushed the table as far to one side as possible, his fingers separated uncannily by an inch of force-field as he gripped it. He laid the man on the seat, loosening the Magno-seams of his blouse, and began applying artificial respiration. David had no illusion as to the possibility of re-covery. He knew the symptoms: the sudden flushing, the loss of voice and breath, the few minutes’ fight for life, and then, the end. The curtain brushed aside. With admirable dis-patch the manager had answered the emergency sig-nal which David had tapped even before he had left his own table. The manager was a short, plump man, dressed in black, tightly fitting clothing of conserva-tive cut. His face was disturbed. “Did someone in this wing” He seemed to shrink in upon himself as his eyes took in the sight. The surviving diner was speaking with hysterical rapidity. “We were having dinner when my friend had this seizure. As for this other man, I don’t know who he is.” David abandoned his futile attempts at revival. He brushed his thick brown hair off his forehead. He said, “You are the manager?” “I am Oliver Gaspere, manager of the Cafe Su-preme,” said the plump man bewilderedly. “The emergency call from Table 87 sounds and when I come, it is empty. I am told a young man has just run Page 5 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |