"Larry Niven & Jerry Pournelle - Lucifer ' s Hammer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Niven Larry)

keep trying to sell me. And buy your drinks all night." He downed his scotch rocks in two
swallows.

When he looked up he'd lost his audience. George was headed back to the bar. Julia had Senator
Jellison's arm and was steering him toward new arrivals. The Senator's administrative assistants
followed in her wake.

"Half a comet is quite a lot," Maureen said. Tim Hamner turned to find her still there. "Tell me,
how do you see anything through the smog?"

She sounded interested. She looked interested. And she could have gone with her father. The scotch
was a warm trace in his throat and stomach. Tim began telling her about his mountain observatory,
not too many miles past Mount Wilson but far enough into the Angeles Mountains that the lights
from Pasadena didn't ruin the seeing. He kept food supplies there, and an assistant, and he'd
spent months of nights watching the sky, tracking known asteroids and the outer moons, letting his
eye and brain learn the territory, and forever watching for the dot of light that shouldn't be
there, the anomaly that would . . .

Maureen Jellison had a familiar glazed look in her eyes. He asked, "Hey, am I boring you?"

She was instantly apologetic. "No, I'm sorry, it was just a stray thought."

"I know I sometimes get carried away."

She smiled and shook her head; a wealth of deep red hair rippled and danced. "No, really. Dad's on
the Finance Subcommittee for Science and Astronautics. He loves pure science, and I caught the bug
from him. I was just. . . You're a man who knows what he wants, and you've found it. Not many can
say that." She was suddenly very serious.

Tim laughed, embarrassed; he was only just getting used to the fact. "What can I do for an
encore?"

"Yes, exactly. What do you do when you've walked on the moon, and then they cancel the space
program?"

"Why . . . I don't know. I've heard they sometimes have troubles. . . ."

"Don't worry about it," Maureen said. "You're on the moon now. Enjoy it."

The hot dry wind known as the Santa Ana blew across the Los Angeles hills, clearing the city of
smog. Lights glittered and danced in the early darkness. Harvey Randall, his wife, Loretta, beside
him, drove his green Toronado with the windows open, relishing the summer weather in January. When
they arrived at the Sutter place he turned the car over to the red jacketed attendant, and paused
while Loretta adjusted her smile before moving through the big front doors.

They found the usual mob scene for a Beverly Hills party. A hundred people were scattered among
the little tables, and another hundred in clumps; a mariachi group in one corner played gay
background music and the singer, deprived of his microphone, was still doing pretty well telling
everyone about the state of his corazon. They greeted their hostess and parted: Loretta found a
conversation, and Harvey located the bar by searching out the thickest cluster of people. He