"Joe Haldeman - The Forever War (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Haldeman Joe)

always been able to get by on five or six hours of sleep, and this was the only time I could be by
myself, out of the army for a while. Looked at the newsfax for a few minutes. Another ship got
caulked, out by Aldebaran sector. That was four years ago.
~ They were mounting a reprisal fleet, but it'll take four years more for them to get out
there. By then, the Taurans would have every portal planet sewed up tight.
Back at the billet, everybody else was sacked and the main lights were out. The whole company'd
been dragging ever since we got back from the two-week lunar training.
I dumped my clothes in the locker, checked the roster and found out I was in bunk 31. Goddammit,
right under the heater.
I slipped through the curtain as quietly as possible so as not to wake up the person next to me.
Couldn't see who it was, but I couldn't have cared less. I slipped under the blanket.
"You're late, Mandella," a voice yawned. It was Rogers.
"Sorry I woke you up," I whispered.
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''saliright." She snuggled over and clasped me spoon-fashion. She was warm and reasonably soft.
I patted her hip in what I hoped was a brotherly fashion. "Night, Rogers."
"G'night, Stallion." She returned the gesture more pointedly.
Why do you always get the tired ones when you're ready and the randy ones when you're tired? I
bowed to the inevitable.
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"Awright, let's get some goddamn back inta that! Stringer team! Move it up-move your ass up!"
A warm front had come in about midnight and the snow had turned to sleet. The permaplast stringer
weighed five hundred pounds and was a bitch to handle, even when it wasn't covered with ice. There
were four of us, two at each end, carrying the plastic girder with frozen fingertips. Rogers was
my partner.
"Steel!" the guy behind me yelled, meaning that he was losing his hold. It wasn't steel, but it
was heavy enough to break your foot. Everybody let go and hopped away. It splashed slush and mud
all over us.
"Goddammit, Petrov," Rogers said, "why didn't you go out for the Red Cross or something? This


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fucken thing's not that fucken heavy." Most of the girls were a little more circumspect in their
speech. Rogers was a little butch.
"Awright, get a fucken move on, stringers-epoxy team! Dog'em! Dog'em!"
Our two epoxy people ran up, swinging their buckets. "Let's go, Mandella. I'm freezin' my balls
off."
"Me, too," the girl said with more feeling than logic.
"One-two--heave!" We got the thing up again and staggered toward the bridge. It was about three-
quarters completed. Looked as if the second platoon was going to beat us. I wouldn't give a damn,
but the platoon that got their bridge built first got to fly home. Four miles of muck for the rest
of us, and no rest before chop.
We got the stringer in place, dropped it with a clank, and fitted the static clamps that held it
to the rise-beams. The female half of the epoxy team started slopping glue on it before we even
had it secured. Her partner was waiting for the stringer on the other side. The floor team was
waiting at the foot of the bridge, each one holding a piece of the
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