"Michael McCollum - Man of Renaissance" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCollum Michael)

MAN OF THE RENAISSANCE
McCollum, Michael

If you think nuclear weapons are difficult to build, ask yourself the following question: How successful
would the Manhattan Project have been at inventing the VCR?



Darol Beckwith guided his steed over rocky ground, carefully threading his way among scrubby Palo
Verde trees and yellow stands of cholla cactus until he gained the summit of the small hill that had been
his goal for the previous quarter hour. Once on top, he reined in his horse. Behind him, two heavily
laden pack mules stopped in their tracks, each taking quick advantage of the opportunity to crop at the
few patches of wiry, yellow grass that poked through the carpet of fist sized stones.

Beckwith removed his salt-stained hat and wiped perspiration from his forehead onto the sleeve of his
threadbare, cotton shirt. Around him, the yellows, greens, and browns of the Great Sonoran Desert
stretched as far as the eye could see. Replacing his hat, he rummaged in his saddlebags for his pipe,
lighter, and tobacco pouch. He soon had the pipe alight and the other implements repacked. Only then
did he lean forward to retrieve a pair of тАШtronic binoculars from their case. He pointed them at the
brown pillar of dust that rose lazily into the cloudless blue sky halfway to the horizon. The dust cloud
leaped forward at the press of a control, resolving itself into a column of mounted men. He studied the
image for several minutes before restoring the glasses to their protective sheath.

"They're Sonoran cavalry, all right," he muttered as he leaned forward to stroke his horse's neck.
"Vargas's report was right about that. Wonder what they're doing this far north?"

The horse's answer was a short whinny as Beckwith urged it forward with his spurs and began picking
his way toward the level ground of the plain below. He made no effort to avoid the patrol, but rather
rode straight for it, reining in when the file of horsemen was less than a kilometer distant.

It did not take long for them to spot him. He puffed on his pipe and watched the Sonoran envelopment
unfold with professional efficiency. He counted thirteen in all -- an officer and a dozen enlisted men -- as
he became the center of a cloud of roiling dust, milling horses, and men with rifles drawn and ready.

He bit down on his pipe and lifted his hands well away from his body. The officer, a captain of cavalry
by his collar insignia, stopped directly before him and aimed a needle gun at his midsection. Beckwith
could see by the thumbwheel that the weapon was selected to full automatic. He tried not to let that
knowledge bother him as he carefully broke into a practiced smile.

" Buenos Dias, Capitan," he said, bowing his head slightly in respect to what was obviously a nobleman,
and probably a younger son or bastard willed into the duke's service by a father determined to keep him
out of trouble. "To what do I owe this singular honor?"

"Who are you, Sen├╡r? Where from and where bound?"

"Beckwith's the name. Darol Beckwith. I am the circuit doctor for these parts. Most recently out of
California Free Republic, bound for the village of Nuevo Tubac on my yearly rounds ... and damned if I
expected to see Sonorans this far north."
"When were you last in the Republic, Sen├╡r Medico ?"