"Bc17" - читать интересную книгу автора (Niven Larry & Pournelle)

"Edgar," Cadmann mused. "He set it up before we took him off watch. He's got them monitoring the lines. All right. Cassandra. Code Beowulf. Are personal code lines corrupted?"
"Code Beowulf acknowledged. Voice pattern Cadmann Weyland acknowledged. Request second password."
"Ragnarok."
"Acknowledged. Your line is secure. Standard emergency frequencies are not under my control."
"Thank you. Secure the message to Justin Weyland."
"Can you trust him?" Carlos said nervously. "He might be a mole."
"Not in him," Cadmann said darkly. "This is Jessica's doing. And Aaron's. But Justin's not involved. I know it."

They swept in through the mountain passes, and looked down onto the half-deserted village of Surf's Up, the rain-drenched swept thatch roofs glistening in the clouded moonlight.
Some small figure pointed up at them, but then they were over the water and swinging south to the dirigible dock.
"What are you going to do?" Carlos asked nervously.
"Talk some sense into them, I hope." He cleared the ridge of coast, and saw what he feared-a black emptiness where Robor had once nested. Waves crashed against the sand, and the concrete pad was completely empty.
"Damn." Cadmann swung the skeeter north. Carlos cleared his throat. "Cadmann-we're low on fuel," he said. "We need to go back and get a new cell."
"We can't," he said grimly. "We don't have time. We're the only ones, Carlos. If we turn around, by the time we get to the colony, and switch batteries, and get back out here-they'll be out of skeeter range, and that's our only link to the mainland. It's now or never."
"And to the mines," Carlos said absently. "But is it worth what this will cost, compadre? They are our children."
"They're running without lights," Cadmann said under his breath. "Cassandra. Can we have a trace on Robor?"
"I'm sorry," she said coolly. "That information is not available at this time."
"Damn!"
"Damn indeed, my friend," Carlos said quietly. "We're almost out of juice."
The rain pelted against their windows, and wind buffeted them. The storm might not have been Edgar's fictional typhoon, but it was no summer breeze. Lightning flashed at the horizon. A fist of wind slammed into the skeeter, knocking them sideways, and Cadmann almost lost control. His knuckles were white on the wheel, and he cursed under his breath.
There was nothing to be seen below them but blackness. "Getting altitude isn't going to help us. If the engine quits, we can autorotate, but we won't glide."
"Let's do it anyway," Carlos said mildly. "It will give me a few extra seconds to pray."
"If you want to confess all the sins on your conscience, you should have started last Tuesday. Nevertheless . . ."
Cadmann started to climb.