"David Drake - Fallen Angels" - читать интересную книгу автора (Drake David)

Piranha skimmed above the glare-white earth as hot as any meteor, but never too hot at any point.
Humming, vibrating, functional.



Gordon was functional too. Alert, but not tense; holding her nose just right while flame-hot air piled
through the scoop and bled into the holding tank. The velocity dropped below optimum on the dial and
Gordon bled some of the air into the scramjet and added hydrogen until the velocity rose again. He did it
casually, as if he did this sort of thing every day. Alex nodded to himself. The kid had it. He just needed it
coaxed out of him.



"Alex?" Gordon said suddenly. "Why not Greenland?"



"Hmm?"



"Why isn't anyone in Greenland shooting missiles?"
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Alex grinned. That was good. Gordon was flying a scoopship on a dip trip, sucking air at five miles per,
and trying to make casual conversation. That's right, Gordo. You can't do this sort of thing all tensed up;
you've got to be relaxed.



"Nobody there but Eskimos," he explained. "An Ice Age doesn't bother them any. Hell, they probably
think they've all died and gone to Inuit Heaven."



"Eskimos I do not know. Gogol once wrote good story that speaks of Laplanders but I did not
understand-тАФ" The sky had turned from black to navy blue. Wouldn't want to get any lower. Gordon
glanced out the windscreen and said, "Shouldn't we be seeing land by now?"



Alex shook his head, realized Gordon wasn't looking at him and answered. "No, the cloud-deck off the
pole . . ." He stopped. The white below them wasn't the cloud shroud any more. They must have gone
past the southern edge or hit a hole in it. White on white. Cloud or ice. If you didn't actually look you,
might not notice. "Damn, damn. The ice is still growing."