"Kathleen O' Neal & Michael W. Gear - People 3 - People Of The Earth" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Neal Kathleen)

Gillespie's gut soured as he squinted up irritably at the
sun. Archaeology? That's all we need right now. We're two months
behind schedule and a half million bucks over budget, and the damned
arkys could shut this whole project down for months while they screw
around with a bunch of dead Indians.

He sighed and slapped the steering wheel in resignation. "Hop in, Red.
Let's see what you got."

He moved his briefcase and thermos to the side as Swenson opened the
far door and slid in. Jesus, the guy smells like rotten hot dogs.

Skip slipped the automatic into drive and bounced off across the
complex. Dust rose in a cloud that swirled into the cab to coat the
dash with a fine layer. Well, better dust than mud. Otherwise, he'd
be slithering around in four-wheel drive like a dirt-track ace--and
cussing every minute of it.

Skip shot Swenson a narrow glance. "What did you find?"

"Beats me. A lot of that charcoal come up under the blade. That's
what them archaeologists was looking for. That, and them chips of
rock."

"Shit. We've already paid them bastards a couple hundred grand to walk
around and dig their little holes every time they find an arrowhead."
Skip shook his head. "Hell of a country we live in. We got a
multimillion-dollar plant to build, and instead, we gotta screw around
with dead Indians. What kind of country is this getting to be
anyway?"

Swenson grunted as he stared out at the dry land.

Skip headed south on a bouncy two-track that had been beaten into the
sage. A yellow Caterpillar, sitting beside a pile of dirt, marked the
compressor site. He pulled up and set the brake as he looked the
situation over. The alleged topsoil had been piled on the downwind
side, the way the Feds wanted. Now several feet of soil had been moved
off the ground surface, and half the dune that lay on the western half
of the site had been torn away.

Swenson pointed with a crooked finger. "Over there."

Skip opened the door and stepped down into the disturbed sandy soil. He
followed Swenson, irritated at the feel of sand scraping on his
five-hundred-dollar ostrich-hide boots.
Swenson jumped up on one of the windrows left by the cat's blade and
jerked his head. "Check that out."