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

bone-rich dung. Hyenas were more to be feared than overgrown cats; their bite
was better than a panther's, and they weren't as picky as a saber-tooth pride.

A shadow swept over him, a gigantic condor-sized shape among the vultures,
circling downward, parting the smaller birds, boring toward Defoe in a tight
spiraling dive, hiding in the orange glare of Delta Eridani. Almost on top of
him, the big shape side-slipped, spilling air. He recognized Ellenor Battle,
wearing an omithopter harness -- a powered version of the wings people flew with
(and sometimes fucked in) on Spindle. She flew like she had been born with them,
doing a low-level stall and landing feet first.

Never let down your guard on Saber-tooth Steppe. Defoe had been blissfully
alone, sharing the day with vultures and a dead bison. Now without warning
Ellenor Battle was standing over him, demanding an explanation. What excuse
could he have for jumping ship, cutting fences, and stealing horses?

Defoe shrugged. "No one needed me just to fly around in circles aboard the Joie
de Vivre."

What fascinated him was her wings. A really fine pair. Falcoform Condors, solar
assisted, seven-plus meters of extendible wingspan, with autoflaps and fingertip
trim tabs. An energy pack in the small of her back powered the harness.

He nodded at the horses. "These are my tickets into Tuch-Dah country. What's
your excuse for being here?" When it came to unwanted company, Glory could be
more crowded than Spindle.

Ellenor slowly reached behind her back, taking the AID recorder from between her
wings -- it must have been strapped alongside the power pack. "I'm here because
of this." She weighed it in her hands, then held it out. "It's my daughter's."

Defoe shooed aside some vultures and sat down. So, the woman on the AID team was
another Battle. They did not look much alike, except perhaps in the shape of the
face. But maybe Ellenor's hair used to be brown. More important, this explained
her readiness to listen to reason.

"What is her name?" -- Defoe bore down lightly on the verb, no reason to assume
she was dead.

"Lila. It's Hindu, and means the playful will of Heaven."

He took the recorder, turning it over in his hands. "So, why didn't your
daughter have this with her during the attack?"

"I've been wondering. There might be some simple explanation."

"Might be." But Defoe doubted it. "That makes another strange circumstance about
the crash and recording."

"What are the others?" Ellenor folded her wings, settling down across from him.