"Gregory Kern - Cap Kennedy 01 - Galaxy of the Lost" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kern Gregory)

Dressed in his usual loose garments he appeared a normal man grown
impossibly obese, and many who had taken him for that had learned to
their surprise that he was far from being a soft mass of useless blubber.
The vast frame carried not an ounce of useless fat, all was sinew and
toughness, trained and controlled strength. His mind matched his body,
shrewd, intelligent. Penza Saratov was the finest ship engineer Kennedy
had ever come across, the great hands amazingly deft.
 "What happened down on the coast, Cap? You get tired of lazing in the
sun?"

"That and more," said Kennedy. "I'll tell you later. Had your fill of
moving rocks and chopping trees?"

"Exercise is good for a man," said Saratov seriously. "That's the trouble
with most civilizations. The people forget to use their muscles, they use
machines instead and get lazy. They grow soft and begin to think like sick
animals. I tell you, Cap, on Droom we don't know what insanity is. Hard
work, fit bodies, and clean minds. You can't beat it."

"Mens sana in corpore sano," said Kennedy softly. "You and the
ancients both."

"Cap?"

"A sound mind in a sound body. The people who first colonized your
world must have held that as their creed." Kennedy looked at the cabin,
the small clearing, the trees which rolled over the hills to where the
emerald sun dipped toward the horizon. The coast with its ebon sand and
overindulgent people seemed half a galaxy away. Saratov had tried it,
losing patience after the first day, craving the exercise his body
demanded.

To each his own, thought Kennedy. Some liked the solitude of lonely
places, the close contact with nature denied to those who lived within the
confines of ships traversing the stars. Some liked the push and thrust of
close-packed populations, the variety of transient cultures and the medley
of social conventions. Others, like Professor Jarl Luden, didn't give a damn
where they were as long as they could work in peace.

He sat in a room in the cabin, a grave, almost sparse figure, his thin,
stringy body neatly dressed in a high-collared blouse, flared pants, and a
brilliant sash around his waist giving an unexpected touch of gaiety. Thick
gray hair swept back from a high forehead. His eyes were blue, deep-set,
and slight with intelligence.

IDs lips were thin, downcurved as if he had tasted the universe and
found it not to his liking.

He turned in his chair as Kennedy entered the room, Saratov at his