"GRAF, L. A - STAR TREK ROUGH TRAILS" - читать интересную книгу автора (Graf L A)

he allowed to serve under Kirk on board the Enterprise forever.

In reality, he knew all he would get out of the trip was a good dinner
and a few precious hours of socializing before he returned to his
restless and un relaxed days on the orbital platform.

Chekov had made an end run around Kirk's moratorium by refusing to be
shuttled surface ward like so much cargo. He knew about the weekly
runs to airdrop emergency supplies across Llano Verde. Showing up in
the bay just before Orbital Shuttle Six kicked off, he offered to help
the civilian laborers pitch the crates toward their assigned drop
points in exchange for a shuttle ride down to Eau Claire. It wasn't
just a chance to "pay" for passage, it was also a chance to be useful,
sweat off some of his frustrations, and leave a positive impression on
the colonials. Or so he'd thought. Vijay Reddy, the pilot, suggested
that Chekov leave the heavy lifting to the laborers and fide up front
with him. Not about to be coddled out of honestly paying his way,
Chekov insisted on remaining in back to work alongside Baldwin and
Plotter. Since neither of the laborers objected, Chekov assumed they
were perfectly happy to have an extra set of hands.

By an hour into the flight, he'd figured out where he really stood.
When he wasn't dragging a crate-without help-forward from the cargo
hold, he was supposed to either lend his back to shoving the crates
through the airlock, or sit out of the way on one of the armless
benches welded into the bulkhead. His comments weren't welcome, and
neither was his presence. They spoke to him only when forced to, and
made no effort to censor their bitterness toward Starfleet when they
talked between themselves. For his own part,

Chekov swallowed most of the angry comments that sprang to mind.
Another hour or so and they'd be on the surface. He would part ways
with them in Eau Claire, and contemplate Kirk's wisdom In recognizing
from the outset that the colonists needed as much physical and
emotional space as Starfleet could give them.

A little communications panel high on the bulkhead chirruped with
incongruous cheer. Unlike communicators or even crystal-based radios,
intercom systems based on hard wire connections still functioned
perfectly despite all the olivium radiation Belle Terre could throw
out. The wall speaker, however, buzzed from the weight of the dust
coating its tympanum. "Dave, how many crates have we got left back
there?"

Plottel touched the container on which he sat as though silently
acknowledging it in his count, then craned his neck to check the deck
behind him. "OMee up front, another twelve in the hold."

"And who's scheduled to get most of them?"