"Robertson, R Garcia - Gone To Glory" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robertson R Garcia Y)

Hip high grass tops ran in every direction, prowled by tawny killers with
knife-sized fangs. A cold undertaker's wind sent waves of color sweeping over
the twilight steppe -- deep blue, rust brown, old gold, and a dozen shades of
green. Hyenas chuckled in the deepening gloom.

As Delta Eridani slid beneath the horizon, darkness rose up out of the grass
roots, devouring the light. Night birds keened. Whoever said humans were the
meanest animals -- "the most dangerous game" --undoubtedly said it in daylight.
Certainly it was never said at night, alone and unarmed on the Saber-tooth
Steppe. Orienting himself by the strange stars of Eridani Sector, Defoe set out
walking toward the distant fenceline.

THE SABER-TOOTH STEPPE

Dew clung to the grasstops by the time Defoe found the fenceline. He had slept
once, to be roused stiff and sore by the cough of a saber-tooth. Throughout the
dark morning hours he heard the cat-like predators that gave the steppe its name
calling to each other. Dawn wind carried their smell, like the odor of a ship's
cat in a confined cabin. At first light the calls ceased; he supposed the pride
had made its kill.

The energy fence cut a shimmering line across the steppe, carrying a hefty
neural frequency shock. Domestic herds grazed beyond it. Overgrazed in fact. The
far side looked like a low-cut lawn.

Defoe walked along the fence until he found a knot of horses, Equus
occidentalis, tall as Arabians but heavier, with slender feet, reminding Defoe
of zebras or unicorns. The lead mare even had zebra stripes across her withers.

The horses lifted their heads as he approached, staring at him and at the
hip-high steppe grass. Defoe told his navmatrix to bypass the fence's gullible
software. The air between the nearest pylons ceased to shimmer, but still
carried the signal saying the fence was intact. Ripping up some long grass,
Defoe stepped through, offering it to the lead mare. They were immediate
friends. She took the grass, letting him mount.

Riding bareback, he guided her through the break in the fence. Her little herd
trotted after them. Defoe set a leisurely course deeper into Tuch-Dah country.
As his navmatrix moved out of range the fence reestablished itself.

He saw springbok and prong horn, but no bison or Tuch-Dahs. Steppe thinned into
shortgrass prairie broken by black knobs of basalt. Curious antelope came right
up to him, heads held high, showing off tiny horns and white throats. Brown
sombre eyes studied him intently. Defoe doubted they had ever been hunted by
humans.

Seeing a spiraling column of vultures, Defoe made for it. It marked a bison
kill, a lone bull set upon by hyenas. He got down to study the kill site. Drag
marks mapped the struggle. The bison had been hit once, and ripped completely
apart, probably in seconds. Nothing remained but rags of hide and white