"Robert A. Heinlein - Have Space Suit Will Travel" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

though I had never had five hundred dollars in my life.
"Son, any statement that starts 'I really ought to -- ' is suspect. It
means you haven't analyzed your motives."
"But five hundred dollars is tuition for a semester, almost."
"Which has nothing to do with the case. Find out what you want to do,
then do it. Never talk yourself into doing something you don't want. Think it
over." He said good-bye and left.
I decided it was foolish to burn my bridges before I crossed them. The
space suit was mine until the middle of September even if I did the sensible
thing -- by then I might be tired of it.
But I didn't get tired of it; a space suit is a marvelous piece of
machinery -- a little space station with everything miniaturized. Mine was a
chrome-plated helmet and shoulder yoke which merged into a body of silicone,
asbestos, and glass-fibre cloth. This hide was stiff except at the joints.
They were the same rugged material but were "constant volume" -- when you bent
a knee a bellows arrangement increased the volume over the knee cap as much as
the space back of the knee was squeezed. Without this a man wouldn't be able
to move; the pressure inside, which can add up to several tons, would hold him
rigid as a statue. These volume compensators were covered with dural armor;
even the finger joints had little dural plates over the knuckles.
It had a heavy glass-fibre belt with clips for tools, and there were the
straps to adjust for height and weight. There was a back pack, now empty, for
air bottles, and zippered pockets inside and out, for batteries and such.
The helmet swung back, taking a bib out of the yoke with it, and the
front opened with two gasketed zippers; this left a door you could wiggle
into. With helmet clamped and zippers closed it was impossible to open the
suit with pressure inside.
 Switches were mounted on the shoulder yoke and on the helmet; the helmet
was monstrous. It contained a drinking tank, pill dispensers six on each side,
a chin plate on the right to switch radio from "receive" to "send," another on
the left to increase or decrease flow of air, an automatic polarizer for the
face lens, microphone and earphones, space for radio circuits in a bulge back
of the head, and an instrument board arched over the head. The instrument
dials read backwards because they were reflected in an inside mirror in front
of the wearer's forehead at an effective fourteen inches from the eyes.
Above the lens or window there were twin headlights. On top were two
antennas, a spike for broadcast and a horn that squirted microwaves like a gun
-- you aimed it by facing the receiving station. The horn antenna was armored
except for its open end.
This sounds as crowded as a lady's purse but everything was beautifully
compact; your head didn't touch anything when you looked out the lens. But you
could tip your head back and see reflected instruments, or tilt it down and
turn it to work chin controls, or simply turn your neck for water nipple or
pills. In all remaining space sponge-rubber padding kept you from banging your
head no matter what. My suit was like a fine car, its helmet like a Swiss
watch. But its air bottles were missing; so was radio gear except for built-in
antennas; radar beacon and emergency radar target were gone, pockets inside
and out were empty, and there were no tools on the belt. The manual told what
it ought to have -- it was like a stripped car.
I decided I just had to make it work right.