Читать книгу The Sons of Scarlatti - John McNally - Страница 17

Lay lay lay lay…

Smallpox had laid waste to the badger and left its corpse a wretched thing, barely identifiable, pustulated and leaking the gall the Scarlatti found so conducive.

For fifteen hours more the Scarlatti would continue to produce fat white eggs from its abdomen, straining to evacuate them, planting each one carefully in the decaying flesh, its insides a furnace of reproduction.

In each egg a primitive nymph was forming. In less than six hours, such was the furious rate of growth, the first of them would begin to consume the remaining contents of its egg sac before bursting out to feast upon the corpse in turn.

Someone whispered something in the US President’s ear. He made his decision and nodded.

“You want our Scarlatti, you got it,” he said simply.

“And further accelerator capacity from CERN, Monsieur le Président? Frau Chancellor?”

“Oui.”

“Ja.”

Commander James Clayton-King loved it when a plan came together.

Then the American President raised a finger. “One condition. We supply the pilot. I want a man onboard.”

King raised an eyebrow in protest.

There was another whisper in the President’s ear.

“Make that a woman.”