"Mike Resnick - Hunting The Snark" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

"In my professional opinion, Dodgson IV has a B3 biosystem," I said. "I already
registered my findings via subspace transmission from the ship last night." He
looked confused. "For sport hunting purposes, that means you have to use a non-
explosive-projectile weapon with a maximum of a .450 grain bullet until the
classification is changed."

"But -- "
"Look," I interrupted. "We have fusion grenades that can literally blow this
planet apart. We have intelligent bullets that will find an animal at a
distance of ten miles, respond to evasive maneuvering, and not contact the
target until an instant kill is guaranteed. We've got molecular imploders that
can turn an enemy brigade into jelly. Given the game we're after, none of them
would qualify as sport hunting. I know, we're only talking about a laser rifle
in your case, but you don't want to start off the safari by breaking the law,
and I'm sure as a sportsman you want to give the animal an even break."

He looked dubious, especially about the even break part, but finally he went
back to his Bubble and brought out the rest of his arsenal.

I gathered the four of them around me.

"Your weapons have been packed away for a week," I said. "Their settings may
have been affected by the ship's acceleration, and this world's gravity is
different, however minimally, from your own. So before we start, I want to give
everyone a chance to adjust their sights." _And_, I added to myself, _let's see
if any of you can hit a non-threatening target at 40 yards, just so I'll know
what I'm up against.

"I'll set up targets in the hollow down by the river," I continued, "and I'll
ask you to come down one at a time." No sense letting the poorer shots get
humiliated in front of the better ones -- always assuming there_ are _any better
ones.

I took a set of the most basic targets out of the cargo hold. Once I reached
the hollow, I placed four of them where I wanted them, activated the anti-grav
devices, and when they were gently bobbing and weaving about six feet above the
ground, I called for Marx, who showed up a moment later.

"Okay, Mr. Marx," I said. "Have you adjusted your sights?"

"I _always_ take care of my weapons," he said as if the question had been an
insult.

"Then let's see what you can do."

He smiled confidently, raised his rifle, looked along the sights, pulled the
trigger, and blew two targets to pieces, then repeated the procedure with his
shotgun.

"Nice shooting," I said.