"Andre Norton - Dark Companion" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

even before my father lifted with his command, and I spent the years with the Ahrens.

Imbert Ahren was head of the Kynvet station and my mother's cousin, my only kin on Beltane. He was
an earnest man, one who achieved results by patient, dogged work rather than through any flashes of
brilliance. In fact, he was apt to be suspicious of unorthodox methods and the yielding to "hunches" on
the part of subordinatesтАФthough, give him his due, he only disapproved mildly and did nothing to limit
any gropings on their part.

His wife, Ranalda, was truly brilliant in her field and more intolerant of others. We did not see much of
her, since she was buried in some obtuse research. The running of the household fell early on Annet, who
was but a year younger than I. In addition, there was Gytha, who usually was to be found with a reading
tape and who had as little domestic interest as her mother.

It must be that the specialization that grew more and more necessary as my species entered space had,
in a fashion, mutated us, though that might be argued against by the very people most affected. Though I
was tutored and urged to choose work that would complement the labors of the station, I had no
aptitude for any of it. In the end, I was studying, in a discontinuous manner, toward a Rangership in one
of the ReservesтАФan occupation Ahren believed I might just qualify forтАФwhen the war, which had not
affected us very directly, at last came to a dreary end.

There was no definite victory, only a weary drawing apart of the opponents from exhaustion. Then
began the interminable "peace talks," which led to a few clean-cut solutions.

Our main concern was that Beltane now seemed forgotten by the powers that had established it. Had
we not long before turned to living off the land, and the land been able to furnish us with food and
clothing, we might have been in desperate straits. Even the biannual government ships, to which our
commerce and communication had sunk in the last years of the war, had now twice failed to arrive, so
that when a ship finally planeted, it was cause for rejoicingтАФuntil the authorities discovered it was in no
way an answer to our needs but rather was a fifth-rate tramp hastily commandeered to bring back a
handful of those men who had been drafted off-world during the conflict. Those veterans were indeed the
halt and the blindтАФcasualties of the military machine.

Among these was Griss Lugard. Although he had been a very close part of my childhood, the
second-in-command of the force my father had led starward, I did not know him as he limped away from
the landing ramp, his small flight bag seeming too great a burden for his stick-thin arms as its weight
pulled him a little to one side and added to the unsteadiness of his gait.

He glanced up as he passed, then dropped that bag. His hand half went out, and the mouth of a
part-restored face (easy to mark by the too smooth skin) grimaced.
"SimтАФ"

Then his hand went to his head, moving across his eyes as one who would brush aside a mist, and I
knew him by the band on his wrist, now far too loose.

"I'm Vere," I said quickly. "And you are"тАФI saw the rank badges on the collar of his faded and patched
tunicтАФ"Sector-Captain Lugard!"

"Vere." He repeated the name as if his mind fumbled back through identification. "VereтАФwhy, you're
Sim's son! ButтАФbutтАФyou might be Sim." He stood there blinking at me, and then, raising his head, he
turned to give his surroundings a slow, searching stare. Now he gazed as if he saw more than his boots