"James Lovegrove - Wings" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lovegrove James)

Over the rising whine of the engine and the vip-vip-vip of chopped air he
shouted, "Good day at school?"
Az shrugged. "So-so." Michael looked carefully at the little guy and saw
the gloom in his face, sitting heavy there like a cumulonimbus on a blue
sky. He didn't ask what the matter was. He merely said, "I've got an idea
- why don't we stop by the Ice Castle on the way home? I bet you anything
there's a sundae there with your name on it."
"Thanks. No," said Az, buckling on his safety belt.
"OK, why don't we pop over to the Aerobowl then? I've got free passes.
Come on. The Thunderhead Eagles are playing the Stratoville Shrikes."
"Oh."
"'Oh'? What does that mean - 'Oh'? The Shrikes, Az. You love the Shrikes."

"No. 'S all right, really. Thanks. I just want to go home."
Michael frowned. "Well, OK. If you say so. If you're sure." He glanced out
of the cockpit to check the street was clear, then pushed down on the
joystick. The autogyro sprang from the landing platform, soaring up into
the sparkling air.
The Corbeau, the latest model in the Airdyne 3-series, was the
status-symbol two-seater of the moment - sleek, tapered, a giant's
teardrop cast in bronze, every inch of the surface of its fuselage smooth
and gleaming from the nose-cone with its ring of rivets to the
scallop-grooved tailfins - and Michael flew it with the requisite
recklessness, slipping and side-sliding through the air channels,
descending suddenly, just as suddenly climbing, overtaking, undertaking,
the aircraft responding to the tiniest nudges on the stick and pedals as
though it were an extension of its pilot, a mechanical extrapolation of
Michael's own abilities. And had Az been in any kind of a good mood, he
would have been laughing uproariously as they nipped around the other
traffic and whizzed past his schoolfellows at breakneck speed, leaving
them standing just as they had left him standing earlier. But today, not
even a fast ride in a classy piece of aero-engineering could lift his
depression. If anything, it served to deepen it.
They whisked down Sunswept Avenue, great cubes of apartment block blurring
by on either side, then took a right onto Cirrus Street, then an up onto
Goshawk, and shortly after that the Corbeau was settling down onto the
private landing platform that poked out like a rectangular tongue from
their parents' front porch.
Az leapt out and was about to make his way up to the front door when
Michael grabbed him by the arm and turned him around with a gentle but
forceful strength, bringing them face to face.
"Listen, little brother," he said softly. Az averted his gaze. "I know
it's not easy for you," Michael continued, "and I know that sometimes it
must feel like the whole world's against you because of what you don't
have or what you think you don't have. Just remember this - it doesn't
matter. You're still our Az, and one lousy pair of wings isn't going to
change that. If I thought it would, I'd cut mine off and give them to you
right now. You understand that, don't you?"
Az nodded dumbly, not looking up. "Good. Well, take it easy on yourself.
And maybe we'll go down to the 'bowl at the weekend. How about that? Would