Читать книгу The Science Fiction Anthology онлайн

537 страница из 776

“We’ve got another missile coming, with metal foil for the maps and photos—plus a small copying camera. You can print them right on the metal, seal that in a can, and leave it for the rocket that’s bringing the doctor. The pilot will blast over it—that should sterilize it—and pick it up when it cools.”

Bill swore, but he was in his suit when the missile landed, heading out across the pumice-covered wastes toward it. The salves had helped the itching a little, but not much. And his nose had grown worse again.

He jockeyed the big supply can out of the torpedo-shaped missile, packed it on his back, and headed for his ship. The itching was acting up as he sweated—this made a real load, about like packing a hundred bulky pounds over his normal Earth weight through the soft drift of the pumice. But his nose was clearing again; it was apparently becoming cyclic. He’d have to relay that information back to the medics. And where were they getting a doctor crazy enough to take a chance with him?