"Dave Duncan - Shadow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Duncan Dave)

A flying suit was not designed for running. It was a great garment for
keeping off the cold at the top of a thermal, up in the nose-bleeding roof of
the sky. Down in the murderous heat of the rice level, swooping above taro
fields or date palms, he could unfasten it down to his crotch, but not here,
and
it was cooking him.
Then he caught his toe against one of the basalt edges and fell flat on
his
face.
The bundle cushioned his fall, except for his elbows. He winced, took a
couple of deep breaths, started to rise, and then saw that he was lying before
a
pair of very shiny boots. Military boots. His eyes flicked from side to side,
and he saw more boots. He scrambled to has feet and saluted.
Oh, God! Of all the officers in the entire Royal Guard, this one had to
be
Colonel Lord Pontly, Commandant of Training School--Pork Eyes himself.
Sald Harl was much better at making friends than enemies. There were not
many people in the world who disliked him and few whom he disliked, but Lord
Pontly qualified on both counts. On the occasion of Sald's class graduation,
for
example, there had been the episode of the pig in the bed...
Colonel Lord Pontly was a short man, no taller than Sald himself, but
twice
the width and thrice the depth. His uniform gleamed and sparkled impeccably,
and
his puffy face bore a very thin mustache, capable of registering extreme
disapproval at times. This was one of those times.
"Harl?" he murmured. "Harl, isn't it?"
"Sir!"
"And an ensign now, I see? When did that accident occur?"
"About a hectoday ago, my lord," Sald said between puffs. He blinked as
sweat trickled into his eyes.
"I think we can correct the error." Lord Pontly glanced at the commander
beside him, who smiled obediently.
"Disorderly conduct, my lord," he said. "Improper dress."
"Oh, surely we can find a few more atrocities?" his lordship muttered.
"Stealing washing, from the look of it. What exactly are you carrying,
Ensign?"
Sald was trembling with the effort of standing still when every nerve was
screaming frantically at him to hurry.
"Court dress, my lord."
Pontly's eyebrows were as linear as his mustache, and they rose in
graceful
astonishment. "Whose court dress?"
"Mine, sir."
The colonel looked at the commander, and the surrounding troopers looked
at
one another.
"And why would you be needing court dress, Ensign?"