"Larry Niven & Jerry Pournelle - Fallen Angels" - читать интересную книгу автора (Niven Larry)

was that only true in free fall? Piranha was hot from friction. She'd melt her
own runway across the glacier.
Sure, but step outside afterward. Your eyeballs will freeze so cold they'll
shatter when you blink . . .
The clouds closed in and he was flying by radar. Dropping. Dropping.
Lose velocity in the turns. Mach 2.5 and falling.
Gordon couldn't lift his head against the acceleration. "At least we'll
have life support," he said suddenly. "Life support for four billion people,
my teacher told me. And it doesn't get really cold, right? Cold enough to
freeze water, but not carbon dioxide."
Alex grunted. Cold enough to freeze water. Gordo, what is the human
body made of? Another turn. "Right," he said. Gordon wasn't a distraction.
He was just a voice. The last thing Alex wanted during his last moments
was dead silence. There would be enough of that afterward.
Think positive, Alex boy. You'll live through the landing, so you can
freeze to death on the ice.
Piranha shuddered as she dropped below Mach 1. The missile must
have left some holes, creating turbulence in the airstream. Then the
scramjet quit and she was diving at the ground. Ice crystals impacting on
battered the ship. She yawed and Alex fought with the stick. Once the ship
dipped suddenly and Alex fought a moment of pure panic. Don't lose it
now! Don't lose it now! The ground looked smooth on the radar. Gordon's
hands were on the dash, his elbows locked. It won't be too cold, Gordo. Not
cold enough to freeze carbon dioxide.
It was the second best landing he had ever made. Second by a long, long
margin. Piranha hit the ice and skipped like a schoolgirl hit and skipped
again. There was probably a third or fourth skip, too; but Alex never knew.

***

Soren Haroldsson had watched the flame from his steading. He was
wrapped in his fur parka, heavy boots, mittens like bowling balls, but still
he shivered. His breath was frosty steam in the evening air. He always took
a turn around the house before they battened down for the night checking
the gate, the wolf-traps, making sure none of the animals had been
accidentally left outside.
It came just at dusk, a fiery stream low across the sky still large and
burning as it touched the ice and sent up clouds of steam. Not a shooting
star. Not a sky stone like he'd heard of. It had come in too shallow, too
controlled. A ship of some sort.
Ah, surely it was Angels.
He shook his swaddled fist at the sky. "Be damned, you air thieves!
We've got you now. Heh!" His breath froze on his graying blond mustache
and beard. Tomorrow he would saddle up Ozzie and ride into Casselton to
notify the authorities. They were probably hunting the Angels already; but
only a fool went riding at night, and Ozzie, at least, was no fool.
Inside, bundled in the warmth of family and livestock, he told Lisbet
what he had seen and guessed. Haughty, technomaniac Angels down on
the Great Ice. Poetic justice, he said. Poetic, she replied and, smiling, quoted
from memory: