"G. David Nordley - Into the Miranda Rift" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nordley G. David)

caverns, I decided her name was clearly her destiny. I wasn't surprised
when an inquiry had revealed no current relationship. So, I determined to
create one and bend it toward my purposes. Somewhat to my surprise, it
worked. Worked to the point where it wasn't entirely clear whether she
was following my agenda, or I, hers.
Randi, as I got to know her, was something like a black hole; of what
goes in, nothing comes out. Things somehow accrete to her orbit and bend
to her will without any noticeable verbal effort on her part. She can spend
a whole evening without saying anything more than "uh-huh." Did you like
the Bach? Nice place you have. Are you comfortable? Do you want more?
Did you like it? Do you want to do it again tomorrow?
"Uh-huh."
"Say, if you go into Miranda someone should do more than take
pictures, don't you think? I've thrown a few words around in my time,
perchance I could lend my services to chronicle the expedition? What do
you think?"
"Uh-huh."
My contract with her was unspoken, and was thus on her terms. There
was no escape. But we are complementary. I became her salesman. I
talked her father into funding Nikhil, and talked Nikhil into accepting
support from one of his erstwhile enemies. Randi organized the people
and things that started coming her way into an expedition.
Randi was inarticulate, not crazy. She went about her wild things in a
highly disciplined way. When she used words, she made lists: "Batteries,
CO 2 Recyclers, Picks, Robot, Ropes, Spare tightsuits, Tissue, Vacuum
tents, Medical supplies, Waste bags, etc."
Such things came to her through grants, donations, her father's name,
friends from previous expeditions, and luck. She worked very hard at
getting these things together. Sometimes I felt I fit down there in "etc.,"
somewhere between the t and the c, and counted myself lucky. If she had
only listed тАЬback door,'' perhaps we would have had one.
As I wrote she was lying beside me in our vacuum tent, exhausted with
worry. I was tired, too.



We wasted a day, sitting on our sausage-shaped equipment pallets,
talking, and convincing ourselves to move on.
Nikhil explained our predicament: Randi's namesake quivers as it bobs
up and down in its not quite perfect orbit, as inclined to be different as
she. Stresses accumulate over ages, build up inside and release, careless of
the consequences. We had discovered, he said, that Miranda is still
shrinking through the gradual collapse of its caverns during such quakes.
Also, because the gravity is so low, it might take years for a series of
quakes and aftershocks to play itself out. The quake danger wouldn't
subside until long after we escaped, or died.
 We had to make sure the front door was closed. It wasтАФslammed shut.
The wide gallery we traversed to arrive at this cavern is now a seam, a
disjoint. A scar and a change of color remain to demarcate the forcible
fusion of two previously separate layers of clathrate.