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

eroded rock as a 3V screen, he had his navmatrix sort through the recorder's
memory for the final images, including the Tuch-Dah attack. When Willungha
himself materialized atop his charging moropus, the chieftain gave a hoot and
whistle. For all Defoe knew, it merely meant, "Hello." Or, "Handsome fellow,
what?"

Lila appeared next, pistol in hand. Defoe froze the image. Walking up to the
scene, he stabbed a finger at her, then made as if to look about --hopefully
telling Willungha that he was looking for her.

The Tuch-Dah's eyes fixed him from within their deep sockets. Defoe repeated the
signs. Wild Thals were not much impressed with offplanet marvels, unless they
could put them to use. Without as much as a grunt, Willungha headed off into the
dark with his gift horses in tow.

Defoe leaped up, telling Ellenor, "We've got to follow." Willungha was the best
lead they were likely to get.

They trekked through most of the short night. Badlands gave way to savanna.
Tangerine dawn outlined the tops of black acacias.

Twenty-odd hours without sleep had Defoe dizzy with fatigue -- wishing to God he
could glaze over for a while. From upwind came the smell of burning dung
denoting a nomad camp.

Beneath the acacias stood a dark circle of yurts, surrounded by lowing herds. A
crowd of Thals emerged to click and whistle their leader into camp. Defoe and
Ellenor got no such cheery greetings, facing stony indifference leavened by the
occasional dirty look.

While Ellenor sat with folded wings, Defoe listened to a lively exchange among
the Thals, seeing fists waved in their direction. The discussion narrowed to a
debate between Willungha and a tall brute with a broken nose and bold red-ocher
tattoos. He must have outweighed Willungha by a couple of stone, but lacked the
chieftain's sangfroid. Pug-ugly's part in the conversation consisted of low
growls and grim looks.

Willungha ended the exchange, turning abruptly and striding over to where Defoe
and Ellenor sat waiting. Squatting on his haunches, he made his position plain
with signs and finger jabbing. They were free to search for their stray female,
with a single exception. Defoe explained to Ellenor, "The only yurt we cannot
enter belongs to mean and ugly over there." He nodded toward the tall Thai with
the broken nose and archer tattoos.

Ellenor frowned. "Logically that is the yurt we most want to examine."

Defoe nodded. Thals could be amazingly unsubtle. He fished out his medikit,
knowing he would need a boost. Strapping the kit to his calf, he told it to give
him the chemical equivalent of a week's rest. "I'll see what I can do about
getting Pug-ugly's permission."