"Jack McKinney - Robotech 03 - Homecoming" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKinney Jack)

The tech gasped, eyes big and round.
"Still there, huh?" Claudia nodded, knowing full well they were. "All
right, then, let's not hear any more about wanting to go home; not until our
job's done. Understood?"
The tech hastened to say, "Aye aye!" as did the rest of the watch.
Claudia eased off a bit, looking around at the watch members. "There are a
lot of folks depending on us. And I guarantee you, you don't want to know what
it feels like to let people down in a situation like this."
 In a far-off compartment of the SDF-1, three strange beings skulked and
crept around. They were not Zentraedi, at least not any longer; they were of
human scale. But neither could they fairly be called human, though that was the
appearance they gave; until a few hours before they had been members of the
giant warrior race.
The devastatingly fast and ferocious enemy mecha that had wreaked such
havoc among the VTs-the one the humans hadn't seen before-had put this threesome
aboard. The one thing they could accurately be called was "spies."
They had hastily retreated from the metal canister in which they'd
arrived. The mighty Quadrono Battalion mecha that had, in its lightning raid,
torn open a section of the SDF-1's hull to toss them inside had also
(understandably enough) attracted a certain amount of attention. If the canister
was found before it quietly dissolved, it might set off a massive search.
The smallest of the three, Rico, said, "Okay, let's start spying!" He was
dark-haired and wiry.
The sturdy Bron, a head taller, said sourly, "But we can't spy in these
clothes; they'll know who we are!"
Even though the Zentraedi military had little experience in espionage-out-
and-out battle was what the warrior race preferred-it was obvious that Bron was
right. The Zentraedi fleet carried no wardrobe in human size, of course, and so
the three wore improvised, shapeless knee-length robes of coarsely woven blue
sackcloth. The sleeveless robes were gathered at the waist with a turn or two of
Zentraedi string, more or less the thickness of clothesline. Not surprisingly,
the spies were barefoot.
It all had them a bit shaken, this matter of dress. The Zentraedi drew
much of their sense of self from their uniforms. The best the trio had been able
to do was agree to maintain the attitude that they were wearing the special
attire of an elite unit. A very small elite unit.
Konda, nearly Bron's height but lean and angular, shook his hair back out
of his eyes. His hair was purple, but intelligence reported that the color
wouldn't stand out much in light of current human fads. "Then, let's find some
other clothes," Konda proposed.
They'd been given some briefings and rather broad guidelines by Zentraedi
intelligence officers, but to a great extent they were improvising as they went
along. Still, Konda's idea made a lot of sense. The spies leapt from hiding and
set off down a passageway, slipping among the shadows and peering around
corners, much more conspicuous than if they'd simply strolled along chatting.
Naturally, SDF-1 had no internal security measures against Zentraedi
spies, since it was generally assumed that a fifty-foot-high armored warrior
wouldn't be difficult to spot in the average crowd.
There followed a period of ducking and darting, of peeping into various
compartments and avoiding any contact with the occasional passerby. The spies