"Joe Haldeman - The Pilot" - читать интересную книгу автора (Haldeman Joe)

intelligent woman could do it."
"I, uh, see . . . youтАФ"
"There are no male slowboat pilots. I don't suppose your censor wants me to discuss that.
You'll just have to go ask a twelve-year-old." She flashes him a bright metal smile. "Much
nicer thanтАФ" Chime.
Weak try at an urbane chuckle. "There's an interesting side benefit to your job. I'll bet
viewers would be surprised to know how old you are."
She lets him wait just long enough; as he opens his mouth to save himself: "Sixty-five."
"Now, isn't that marvelous? You could pass for twenty."
"As could anybody who didn't have to contend with gravity and sun and wind and this"тАФ
chimeтАФ"that passes for your food and drink and air. I've spent most of my life immersed in
oxygenated fluorocarbon, weightless, fed a perfect diet, exercised by machines."
"But your job is dangerous."
"Not very. Perhaps one in thirty is lost."
"More dangerous than holovision." His image turns a little fuzzy; she touches the filthy
knob to sharpen him. "The atomic drive itself must be hazardous." Carries her contaminated
hand into the bathroom, listening. "Not to mention meteors andтАФ" Fool.
"No, actual catastrophes are very rare." She washes the offended fingers carefully. "The
dangerous time is turnaround, when the ship is going with maximum velocity. It's supposed
to flip and slow down for the last half of the journey." Leaves the soap on warm clean
fingers. "Sometimes they don't flip, though; just keep going, faster and faster. Too fast for
the Company's rescue ship."
"How terrible." Standing in front of the set, dry hand tugs elastic, urgent. Clothes! "They
just keep going ..."
"Forever." Ecstasy, 0! "The pilot may live for centuries." "Well ... if ever a cliche was
true . . . that does sound like a fate worse than death." Fool.
She nods soberly. "Indeed it does." Fool, fool, O damn, doesn't last this way. She sinks
back onto the bed and starts to cry. Fry them dead.
 He puts a filthy finger to his lips. "Well. Are you, um, going to be on Earth long?"
"Only another two days." Hurting herself, she stops, wipes eyes, soap sting brings new
tears. "I like being back in New York, but the gravity is tiring. The air makes me cough. I
look forward to going out again." Last time, fry the bastards.
тАЬSaturn this time?тАЭ
"No, for a change I'm going to the inner system. Taking five hundred colonists to the new
Venus settlement." Taking them to burn.
"Is that more dangerous? I mean, I don't know much about space, but isn't there a danger
that you could fall into the Sun?"
She smiles politely. "No, none." Sharp metal teeth; she runs her tongue along behind her
teeth but the switches aren't connected. "It would take as much energy to `fall' into the Sun
as it takes to escape from the solar system." Less to skim it, though, fry. "All that gravity. I
suppose it might be possible; I've never made the calculation." Characteristic velocity
17.038 emos, exit inclination 0.117 rad, goodbye solar system, goodbye filth.
Blank stare. "Yes . . . oh, Jimmy's giving me the signal." Right at perihelion, goose it all
the way up, emergency override, nineteen gees, crush their dry baked bodies into dust. "I'm
afraid we've run out of time."
Cargo shit baked to sterile dust. "We certainly have enjoyed having you here, Lydia." He
holds out his hand and she looks at it.
Bound for the stars, forever young, the dear ship inside of my ecstasy. "Thank you."