"Andrew J. Offutt - Spaceways 14 - Assignment Hellhole" - читать интересную книгу автора (Offutt Andrew J)

be when the greaseroot started sprouting-adding stink to heat. Damp, Alanni
slid down off the tractor's seat, pulled off her broad-brimmed skulkerhide
hat, and fanned herself with it. Then she ran a finger down the front of her
shirt, opening it halfway to the waist. That action revealed nothing much that
hadn't showed before. The shirt was cut low to begin with and Alanni was so
constructed that she couldn't hide her contours in less than fur or a
spacesuit-and not always in those. There came no sudden sag, either. Alanni
didn't, except in gravity much heavier than this; Eagle's .96-standard. Anyone
who tried picking her up quickly understood why. He'd be lifting a compact
package wrapped neatly in cinnamon-colored skin and weighing a surprising
sixty-five kilos.* Her shoulders were wide and her ribcage deep for her 170
sems, and everything else was in proportion. And in fighting shape, too.
Alanni weighed maybe five kilos more now than she had as a TSA policer, and
she liked herself this way. (A little extra jiggle had its points-two in *65
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kilograms; about 143 pounds, Old Style. 1 2 front, notably-as well as its
curves.) Beneath was muscle, as a few people had discovered when they tried to
pick her up with unfriendly intent. It was a discovery that those who survived
didn't need to make twice. Now she pulled the chillpack from under the tractor
seat and unhooked the transmitter for the farm's remotes from the control
panel. The transmitter went on her belt while she popped the seal on the
pak. She nearly choked on the first swig, but giggled on the second. Dear
ingenious Bouncy! He'd filled the pak with ice-cold Starflare beer imported
from Thebanis, then sealed it so tightly that the brew hadn't been able to go
flat. Starflare outpointed water about six to one any time! Even more, out in
the field. Alanni didn't hang up the pak until it was empty. Wiping her mouth
with the back of one hand, she pressed a button on the transmitter with the
other. The antenna shot out half a meter. Quick touches of four buttons set
the frequency. Another touch-at Transmit this time-and the receiver on the
automatic sluicegates at the north end of the paddy would "hear" her signal.
The gates would open and water from the irrigation canal would commence
flooding the paddy, submerging the newly planted greaseroot seeds and
triggering the enzymes that made them fertile. The delicate operation divided
the good greaseroot farmers from the bad. Also, usually, those who made a
living frora those who wound up selling out and moving to Starlight-the
planetary capital-or Braca's Landing. Let the paddy dry out too soon, and the
seeds would turn to stone-hard little husks. Taint the water with some
chemical that wasn't supposed to be there, and the roots would produce
low-grade or contaminated oil. Farming had grown a lot more technological, but
little easier over the centuries. Greaseroot oil was about the best vegetable
lubricant around. Otherwise the Eaglers would probably have left the plant as
what it was when the first expedition hit the planet-a weed that choked swamps
and crowded out food crops. They hadn't. They had made it pay. Now greaseroot
farmers gave Eagle half its offplanet trade income. (They also saved it the
need of 3 any sort of petrochemical industry; low-grade greaseroot oil proved
readily usable in making plastic.) Now greaseroot farmers were the aristocrats
of the countryside of planet Eagle of the Tri-System Accord, and no one