"Jerry Pournelle - Houses of the Kzinti" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pournelle Jerry)

was something else when
the toughest warriors in the galaxy attached you to
their food chain.
He slouched because that was as far from a military
posture as a man could
get-and Locklear's personal war could hardly be
declared if he valued his own
pelt. He would try to learn where hand weapons were
kept, but would try to seem
stupid. He would . . . he found the last vow
impossible to keep with the
Grraf-Commander's first question.
Wheeling in his command chair on the Raptor's bridge,
the commander faced the
captive. "If you piloted your own monkeyship, then
you have some menial skills."
It was not a question; more like an accusation. "Can
you learn to read meters if
it will lengthen your pathetic life?"
Ah, there was a question! Locklear was on the point
of lying, but it took a
worried kzin to sing a worried song. If they needed
him to read meters, he might
learn much in a short time. Besides, they'd know
bloody well if he lied on this
matter. "I can try," he said. "What's the problem?"
"Tell him," spat Grraf-Commander, spinning about
again to the holo screen.
Tzak-Navigator made a gesture of agreement, standing
beside Locklear and gazing
toward the vast humped shoulders of the fourth kzin.
This nameless one was of
truly gigantic size. He turned, growling, and
Locklear noted the nose scar that
seemed very appropriate for a flash-tempered gunner.
Tzak-Navigator met his gaze
and paused, with the characteristic tremor of a kzin
who prided himself on
physical control. "Ship's Gunner, you are relieved.
Adequately done."
With the final phrase, Ship's Gunner relaxed his ear
umbrellas and stalked off
with a barely creditable salute. Tzak-Navigator
pointed to the vacated seat, and
Locklear took it. "He has got us lost," muttered the
navigator.
"But you were the navigator," Locklear said.
"Watch your tongue!"
"I'm just trying to understand crew duties. I asked
what the problem was, and