"The Clouds Of Saturn" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCollum Michael)

Lars glanced once more at the outside temperature readout. Then, with his own
sob, he pulled back on his controller and sent the ship into a flat circle. They
did not gain altitude, but they were not losing any either. For the next minute,
he watched asDelphi Тs remains sank lower and lower. Finally, it disappeared
into the cloud floor of the North Temperate Belt. As Sands scanned the sky,
nowhere could he see the silver sphere of a rescue balloon.
He looked at Halley, who was staring at him. There was horror behind the
glistening tears in her eyes. Suddenly, Sands felt an emptiness greater than any
he had ever known.
УIТm sorry, Halley. HeТs gone.Ф
His comment was answered by nothing save the rushing hydrogen wind beyond the
hull.
#

Chapter 2: Port Gregson

The Alouette Bar was on the outer rim of the Port Gregson support truss, beyond
the protective enclosure of the gasbag, with picture windows overlooking the
abyss. At one time, the place had boasted a balcony where patrons could step
outside -- suitably bundled up against the cold and wearing a nose breather, of
course. It had been the custom for drinkers to lean over the waist high railing
and spit into the wind. The balcony had been closed when one expectorator had
let go with too much enthusiasm, and had nearly followed his saliva into the
misty depths.
For the past twenty minutes, Larson Sands had been eyeing the graphite railing
through the floor-to-ceiling plastic window and thinking how easy it would be to
end his problems forever. All that was required of him was to get up from the
table, walk casually to the hydrogen lock, and step through. It would then be
three long strides to the cityТs outer edge. Once over the railing, Lars would
have two thousand kilometers of empty sky in which to soar before plunging into
the hydrogen sea that had swallowed Dane. Without a breather, he would pass out
from asphyxiation long before the temperature or pressure rose to fatal levels.
All things considered, not a bad way to go.
УReady for another, Lars?Ф
His drinking partnerТs question shook him out of his reverie. Ross Crandall was
an old man for a privateer. At 45 standard years, he had been a hired mercenary
for more than two decades. He had once had a ship of his own, but had lost it in
a brushfire war five years earlier. After bouncing from ship to ship, he had
joinedSparrowHawk as a weapons specialist. It had been CrandallТs marksmanship
that had cleared the way for them to go to the aid of the strickenDelphi .
УSure, Ross.Ф
Crandall signaled for the waitressТs attention. She sauntered over to the table.
She was a typical Gregsonite, a fact made obvious by a costume that left little
to the imagination. Had Lars been in a better mood, he might have been
interested in the wares she was so forthrightly advertising. As it was, Crandall
ordered two more scotches while Lars stared off into space.
The bar was on the starboard side of the city, which meant that it faced south.
The Arch was a pale rainbow of soft white light barely visible in the royal blue
sky. From this latitude, it climbed nearly one-third to the zenith. The sun was
low to the right, casting darkening shadows over the cloud canyons. In only a