"Will McCarthy - Bloom" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCarty Sarah)

"Do what? How are you going to manage tomorrow?"

"We'll manage tomorrow. Get somebody in off another shift, I don't know. It's right now I'm worried
about, Johnny. Nobody goes barefoot on this planet; that's a responsibility I take very seriously."

His face and voice were profoundly sincere, and the funny thing is, he was right. Ganymede was not a
forgiving place, and the demands of life here did not allow for much error or idleness or want. People
needed shoes, clothing, food, needed something every day, and somebody had to be there to provide it
all. Nobody went barefoot, ever.
That was how I got talked into spending one more day at the press. Julf Ernst could do that to you. It's
why they made him supervisor, I guess.

As promised, we all marched down to the Engel together when it was over and the eighty-nine pairs
were drying on the rack. Didn't say much, though. The Engel, dark and moody as usual, had only a
couple of patrons besides us, people eating dinner rather than drinking, so the silence got fairly
oppressive as we stared at each other across the iron table and sipped our beers. It pained meтАФthis was
costing a good bit, probably three days' pay when all was said and done, and I really did appreciate the
sentiment. The guys and I had worked together for most of a decade and a half, and spent twelve hours
of six days of fifty-one weeks a year standing practically shoulder to shoulder. But when you got right
down to it, apart from commenting on the quality of the beer we didn't really have all that much to say to
each other.

Hindsight filter: we could have talked about families, or politics, or money, or anything really. We just
didn't. Didn't know how.

It was Ernst who saved us, who single-handedly took on the burden of speech. He raised a hand,
showed it to us, then pressed it to the table's faux-woodgrain surface and slid it around in a circle, as if
feeling the texture of the metal.

"Every surface," he said, "is totally covered in macrophages. That's our line of defense. That's what
separates us from Gladholders and dead Earthlings, what defines our whole society. We breathe these
things, we totally trust them with our lives. Isn't that right, Johnny?"

I supposed that it was.

"Down in the Mycosystem," he went on, his fat mustache waggling, "there are no macrophages. That's
what defines its existence. That's why it's all turned to goo. You ask me, we're just not making enough
macrophages. Immunize the whole solar system, that's what I say."

"I'm not sure it works that way," I said uncertainly.

"No?" He shrugged. "I've always wondered. I guess they would have done it by now if they thought they
could. So what about this mission of yours? What's that about? You going to capture back some territory
for us?"

I shook my head, swallowed some dark, rich been "No, just a scouting mission. Placing some
instruments."

"That's all?" He seemed surprised, disappointed. The guys grumbled their agreement with that sentiment.