"Cook, Glen - Heirs of Babylon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cook Glen)

A RESTLESS couple sat on a blanket on a twisted, rusted
girder, holding hands sadly, occasionally glancing toward
the ancient ship at the pier in the distance, silent love
islanded in a forest of broken steel madness. The girl
moved nervously, stared through the bones of the
shipyard, hating the ship that would take her Kurt awayЧ
Jager, a gray steel dragon specially evolved for the
dealing of death, crouched, waiting beside the Hoch-und-
Deutschmeister pier. Her hand tightened on his. She lifted
it, rubbed her cheek against his knuckles, kissed them, and
moved closer. He slipped his arm around her, lightly. Hers
passed around his waist. The cool, moist fingers of their
free hands entwined in her lap.

They were Kurt and Karen Ranke, married eleven
months, two weeks, and three days, and about to be
parted by the warshipЧperhaps permanently. Both were
tall and leanly muscular, blond, blue-eyed, almost stereo-
typically Aryan, alike as brother and sister, yet related
only through marriage. Their sadness was for the War, on
again.

A snatch of song momentarily haunted the ruins to
their left. They turned. A hundred meters distant, beside
the shallow, scum-topped water-corpse of the Kiel Canal,
sailors made their ways toward the destroyer; men without
attachments, accompanied by no women. One sang a
bawdy verse. The others laughed.

"Hans and his deck apes," Kurt murmured. "Almost
happy because we're pulling out."

Karen leaned her head against his shoulder, said noth-
ing. Through narrowed eyes she searched the torn iron
fingers surrounding them. Kurt ignored the question, un-
spoken, in her eyes. He understood the need to create
more such ruin no better than she.

A whistle shrieked at the pier, a foghorn bellowedЧ
Jager testing.

The warship had come through sea trials well, like a
great-grandmother proving capable of the marathon. Her

officers and men had once been delighted as children with
a new toy. But their joy was fading. The toy was ready
for the War, for the Last of All Battles, as the Political
Office had it. A pale specter on a far horizon dampened
all enthusiasms. The games were over, and death lay in
ambush on a distant sea.