Книга только для ознакомления
. But, confound it, Stinky -- I have a feeling I started the fight myself."
"Huh?"
"Two days ago I had to tell Baslim that we hadn't been able to identify him. He walked out in a state of shock. I should have listened to my psych officer. The lad has scars that make him irresponsible under the right -- I mean the 'wrong' -- stimulus. I'm glad it was mashed potatoes and not a knife."
"Oh, come now, boss! Mashed potatoes are hardly a deadly weapon."
"You weren't here when he got the bad news. Not knowing who he is hurts him."
Stancke's pudgy face pouted in thought "Boss? How old was this kid when he was captured?"
"Eh? Kris thinks he was about four."
"Skipper, that backwoods place where you were born; at what age were you fingerprinted, blood-typed, retina-photographed and so forth?"
"Why, when I started school."
"Me, too. I'll bet they wait that long most places."
Brisby blinked. "That's why they wouldn't have anything on him!"
"Maybe. But on Riff they take identity on a baby before he leaves the delivery room."
"My people, too. But --"
"Sure, sure! It's common practice. But how?"
Brisby looked blank, then banged the desk. "Footprints! And we didn't send them in." He slapped the talkie. "Eddie! Get Baslim here on the double!"
Thorby was glumly removing the chevron he had worn by courtesy for so short a time. He was scared by the peremptory order; it boded ill
|
