"Zach Hughes - Mother Lode" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hughes Zach)

stranded in space. That's where the Mules came in. Some space tugs were
government owned. Most, however, were free enterprise. At specified sites
on every blink route space tugs were stationed. There was fierce bidding
for the more traveled routes, for the salvage money that came to a space
tug and its owners when a big ship had to be piggybacked to a repair yard
by a squat, dwarfed Mule made fortunes.

Although the Mule was hailed all over the civilized galaxy as the most
dependable ship ever put into space, she had been replaced over the past
ten years by the newer, larger, more comfortable Fleet Class tug, built by
the same Trojan shipyards that had produced the Mules.

Erin first saw her Mule on a day when snowdrifts were piling up
against the side of the port buildings. She had drifted over in her father's
aircar, Mop sitting beside her, tongue lolling in excitement at being able
to go. She was given a landing spot at least two hundred yards from the
administration building. After a few doubtful steps in the snow, Mop
decided that it was frisky time. He dashed back and forth, made mock
attacks on her legs, bit at the falling flakes.

Sure enough there was a sign over a door that said THE
COMPUTERMAN, The Century Series a Specialty. She entered without
knocking. Denton Gale sat with his feet up on his desk. He dropped his
boots to the floor and stood, smiling. Mop jumped into his chair and
demanded attention. Denton rubbed the dog's head as he said, "I didn't
think you'd come today."

"Well, I couldn't wait to see my inheritance," she said with a wry smile.

"Let me get my coat."

The Mother Lode sat squatly on a pad another two hundred yards away
through snow and icy wind. Denton punched a code into the airlock.

"Mother's birthday," Erin said.

"This is a pretty secure port," Denton said. "Even if someone figured
out the code you wouldn't have to worry."
 Ship's smell. A hint of silicon lubes, that almost intangible scent
produced by banks of electronics at work, the odd tang to the recycled air
that meant a Blink generator was in operation. The Mother Lode was on
standby. Her automatic monitoring systems purred and hummed. The
control bridge had been freshly painted. The command chair was newly
upholstered in synthetic leather.

"He had her completely overhauled," Denton said. "She's ready. You
could take her anywhere."

"I've just been there," Erin said, for the hatch had closed behind him
and she was closed in, encapsulated once more in metal, and although it