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

"AID wants an 'experienced surface hand.' Someone who knows the Tuch-Dah. You've
been fortunate with them."

"Fortunate? Not hardly. Incredibly lucky would be nearer the mark." Not the sort
of luck Defoe aimed to lean on.

Salome persisted. "But you have come through intact -- always a plus -and saved
us a lot of trouble." And saved the Tuch-Dah a lot of trouble, thought Defoe,
not that the ungrateful bastards ever seemed to notice. "Besides you're fresh up
from the surface; it won't be so much of a shock."

"Right. With four months up-time coming." Up-time as in up here -- on Spindle --
where it was too perfect a day to contemplate work. Defoe had just done a solid
eighteen weeks on Glory. Great-aunt Tillie in Alpha C would do duty dirtside
before he went back early. "Last time AID lost a team the problem solved itself
-- Tuch-Dahs sent their heads back in a leather bag."

"Marvelously considerate. But we can't always count on it. Take a couple of
weeks," Salome suggested. "Clear this up, and we'll make it five months." That
was double time. A rare offer. AID had to be in a fine panic.

"Make it six months," Defoe said. Every day in paradise is perfect -- so one is
as good as another. He was demanding four days of up-time for every day dirtside
-- a splendid deal if he was so awfully essential.

"Find the team first," Salome told him primly. "Four weeks for going down to
Glory. Four more for getting the job done." Defoe would get the extra days only
if he delivered.

Bargaining with a Satanist was like dealing with the Devil. Centuries of
persecution had turned a diabolically carefree sect into overcompensating
overachievers. But it was always a comfort knowing that in the bad old days
decent folk would have tied his boss to a stake and had her barbecued.

"I'll need a free hand," Defoe told her. "No interference from AID."

"That's your lookout. AID will be there -- it's their team that's down. The way
to avoid them is to get going and keep going."

"Sure thing." Defoe was already up and moving. "See you in Hell, Salome."

"Not unless you convert." He could hear her wicked smile. Another sign things
were serious. Normally, Salome would never kid about religion.

Sloe gin and low gravity made the slidewalk seem to float in front of him.
Rooftops and tree-lined arcades curved upward, vanishing into the light
streaming down the length of the rotating habitat, reflected inward from mirrors
set in the spinning well of stars. Spindle could amaze even sober senses.