"Stanislaw Lem - Tales of Pirx the Pilot" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lem Stanislaw)

blue one aft -- and waited. Not a sound except for the fly.
"JO-2 ditto Terraluna, JO-2 Terraluna, calling. . ." Buzz-buzz, hum-hum. . .
Does he mean me? Pirx meditated in despair.
"AMU-27 to JO-2 ditto Terraluna, position quadrant four, perimeter sector PAL, all navigation
lights on. Over."
When both JO ships started transmitting at the same time, Pirx switched on the sequence
selector, but there was too much interference. The buzzing fly, of course.
"I'll hang myself!" That such a remedy was out of the question, due to the effects of
weightlessness, never occurred to him.
Just then he sighted both ships on the radar screen. They were following him on parallel courses,
spaced no more than nine kilometers apart, which was prohibited; as the pilot ship, it was up to him to
make them adhere to the prescribed distance of fourteen kilometers. Just as he was checking the location
of the blips on the radar screen, his old friend the fly landed on one of them. In a fit of anger he threw his
navigation book at it, but it was deflected by the blister's glass wall, and instead of sliding down, it
bumped against the ceiling, where, because of the zero gravity, it fluttered aimlessly about in space.
Seemingly unruffled, the fly strolled merrily on its way across the screen.
"AMU-27 Terraluna to JO-2 ditto JO-2. I have you in range. You are hard aboard. Switch over
to parallel course with a correction of zero-point-zero one. Stand by on completion of maneuver. Out."
Gradually the distance between the blips began to widen, all communication being temporarily
interrupted by the fly as it embarked on a noisy little promenade around the comput-er's microphone.
Pirx had run out of things to throw; the flight book was still hovering overhead, lithely flapping its pages.
"PAL Central to AMU-27 Terraluna. Abandon outer quadrant, abandon outer quadrant, am
assuming transsolar course. Over."
He would try to screw things up! Pirx mentally fumed. What the hell do I care about the
transsolar? Anyone knows that spaceships flying in group formation have priority. He began shouting in
reply, and in this shouting of his there was vented all his impotent fury directed at the fly.
"AMU-27 Terraluna to PAL Central. Negative, am not abandoning outer quadrant, to hell with
your transsolar, am flying in tri-formation. AMU-27, JO-2 ditto JO-2, squadron leader AMU-27
Terraluna. Out."
I didn't have to say "to hell with your transsolar," he thought. That'll cost me a few points for sure.
Oh, they can all damn well go to hell! I'll probably get docked for the fly, too.
It could only have happened to him. A fly! Wow, big deal! He could just see Smiga and Boerst
busting a gut when they got wind of that crazy-assed fly. It was the first time since lift-off that he caught
himself thinking of Boerst. But right now he didn't have a moment to lose, because PAL was dropping
farther and farther behind. They had been flying in formation for a good five minutes.
"AMU-27 to JO-2 ditto JO-2 Terraluna. It is now 2007 hours. Insertion parabolic orbit
Terraluna to commence at 2010 hours. Course one hundred eleven. . ." And he read off the course data
from the flight sheet, which, by a feat of acrobatics, he was able to retrieve from overhead. The two JO
ships radioed their reply. PAL dropped out of sight, but he could still hear it signaling ever so faintly. Or
was that the fly he was hearing?
For a moment the fly seemed to multiply, to be in two different places at once. Pirx rubbed his
eyes. Just as he suspected: there was not one, but two of them. Where did the second one come from?!
Now I'm really a goner, he reflected with absolute calm, without a sign of any emotion. He even
felt relieved somehow, knowing that it no longer mattered -- either way he was sunk. His thoughts were
diverted by a glance at the clock: it was 2010 hours, the time he himself had scheduled for the maneuver
-- and he had yet to even place his hands on the controls!
The daily grind of training exercises must have taken their toll because without a moment's
hesitation he grabbed both control sticks, pressed first the left and then the right one, and all the time kept
his eye on the trajectometer. The engine responded with a hollow roar until it gradually tapered off to a
whisper. Ouch! Something landed on his forehead, just under his visor, and remained stationary. The