"Edward M. Lerner - Part II of IV - A New Order of Things" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lerner Edward M)

Lothwer broke a long silence. "Keffah, could you adapt BEC techniques to our systems?"

"Some sort of interface mechanism, you mean? Something to convert from the BEC form? Not easily,
but yes. I don't see the point. That would still expose ... the technology."

"Not a problem," Art said. System engineers think a lot about interfaces. "Take it in stages. The
BEC-to-whatever conversion mechanism never leaves Victorious. All the UP engineers would require is
a BEC canister that mates with your onboard converter. We fill the BEC container, you take it aboard
Victorious and transfer the fuel. Give us back the empty canister, and we repeat the process."

"A moment please," Lothwer said.

The cruiser's instruments reported sudden spikes in radio traffic, all encrypted. At very low power:
Lothwer and Keffah infolinking. At slightly higher power: exchanges between them and the Snake aux
ship floating alongside, at the end of a flexible docking tube. At higher power still: messages to and from
Victorious. Consultations? Request for approval? Amid total silence, Art and Joe tried to read meaning
into the scarcest hints of movement by their guests. Was that a twitch? A nervous tic? Or were they just
shifting positions on the stools?

Lothwer's eyes unglazed. "Our engineers agree in principle, but BECs worry them. This is technology we
had abandoned as too dangerous."

"It's a technology we have used without incident for years," Eva snapped. "We would never have scaled
it up to mass production otherwise."

"And that expertise," said Keffah, "is crucial. Before we dare bring a BEC container near Victorious,
you must convince me it is safe."
****
The Vestal Non-Virgin came, as always, in a tall, naked, and anatomically improbable ceramic mug. All
that went into it were cherry juice and eighty-proof ouzo. Mostly ouzo. It was a Belter favorite, in no way
associated with sacramental solemnity.

Helmut didn't care.

He sipped slowly, his thoughts not on the beverage, nor the hangover certain to follow. Kwasi's libation
of choice was the Non-Virgin, and today was Kwasi's birthday. Would have been. The least he could do
was drink to an old friend's memory.

After all, he'd gotten Kwasi Abodapki killed. Among others.

Three Exxon-Boeing scoopships had berthed recently, and the spaceport dive was boisterous. Helmut's
glum aura kept the adjacent stools empty. "Cheers, old friend."

The Lucky Strike had rendezvoused without incident with the vaguely potato-shaped rock known only
as 2009 Sigma r, measuring roughly forty meters on its major axis. There was no evidence, physical or
infospherical, to suggest anyone but Willem Vanderkellen had ever set boot on it.

He sipped without tasting, his thoughts far away.

The four of them--he and give-you-the-spare-oxy-tank-off-his-back Kwasi, wisecracking Bill and