"H. Beam Piper - Naudsonce" - читать интересную книгу автора (Piper H Beam)

"Extee Three, and C-H trade candy," Fayon said. Field Ration, Extraterrestrial Service, Type Three,
could be eaten by anything with a carbon-hydrogen metabolism, and so could the trade candy. "Nothing
else, though, till we have some idea what goes on inside them."

Dorver thought the six members of the delegation would be persons of special consequence, and should
have something extra. That was probably so. Dorver was as quick to pick up clues to an alien social
order as he was, himself, to deduce a culture pattern from a few artifacts. He and Lillian went back to the
landing craft to collect the presents.

Everybody, horn-detail, armed guard and all, got one ten-inch bowie knife and sheath, a red bandanna
neckcloth, and a piece of flashy junk jewelry. The (town council? prominent citizens? or what?) also
received colored table-spread apiece; these were draped over their shoulders and fastened with
two-inch plastic pins advertising the candidacy of somebody for President of the Federation Member
Republic of Venus a couple of elections ago. They all looked woebegone about it; that would be their
expression of joy. Different type nerves and different facial musculature, Fayon thought. As soon as they
sampled the Extee Three and candy, they looked crushed under all the sorrows of the galaxy.

By pantomime and pointing to the sun, Meillard managed to inform them that the next day, when the sun
was in the same position, the Terrans would visit their village, bringing more gifts. The natives were quite
agreeable, but Meillard was disgruntled that he had to use signtalk. The natives started off toward the
village on the mound, munching Extee Three and trying out their new knives. This time tomorrow, half of
them would have bandaged thumbs.

The Marine riflemen and submachine-gunners were coming in, slinging their weapons and lighting
cigarettes. A couple of Navy technicians were getting a snooperтАФa thing shaped like a short-tailed
tadpole, six feet long by three at the widest, fitted with visible-light and infra-red screen pickups and
crammed with detection instrumentsтАФready to relieve the combat car over the village. The contact team
crowded into the Number One landing craft, which had been fitted out as a temporary headquarters.
Prefab-hut elements were already being unloaded from the other craft.

Everybody felt that a drink was in order, even if it was two hours short of cocktail time. They carried
bottles and glasses and ice to the front of the landing craft and sat down in front of the battery of view
and communication screens. The central screen was a two-way, tuned to one in the officers' lounge
aboard the Hubert Penrose, two hundred miles above. In it, also provided with drinks, were Captain
Guy Vindinho and two other Navy officers, and a Marine captain in shipboard blues. Like Gofredo,
Vindinho must have gotten into the Service on tiptoe; he had a bald dome and a red beard, and he
always looked as though he were gloating because nobody knew that his name was really
Rumplestiltskin. He had been watching the contact by screen. He lifted his glass toward Meillard.

"Over the hump, Paul?"

Meillard raised his drink to Vindinho. "Over the first one. There's a whole string of them ahead. At least,
we sent them away happy. I hope."

"You're going to make permanent camp where you are now?" one of the other officers asked.
Lieutenant-Commander Dave Questell; ground engineering and construction officer. "What do you
need?"

There were two viewscreens from pickups aboard the 2500-foot battle cruiser. One, at ten-power