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

the line with his boot. If he could snag the anchor loop, he could hang safely
until someone hauled him up.

Too far. His foot would not reach. Grasstops whirled dizzily below him. The Joie
de Vivre topped four kilometers, still rising.

Loosening his left hand, he slid down the line, feeling with his boot for the
loop. His toe went in. He gave a silent cheer. He had made it.

Just as his boot settled in, the line jerked -- the Joie had reached her
pressure height, automatically venting hydrogen. Nosing down, she took a drunken
dip, porpoising out of control.

Defoe fought to regain his grip. Fatigued fingers weren't quick enough. The line
snapped away. Two sleepless nights, the fight with the Thai, the struggle on the
line, had all taken too much out of him.

Arms flailing, he fell slowly backward, his booted foot twisting in the loop.
Two-thirds g gave him enough time to make a last lunge at the line. And miss.

Dangling upside down, holding on by his boot, he could feel his foot slipping.
Doubling up, Defoe made a grab at the boot with his good hand. He got it.
Fingers gripped the boot as his foot slipped free and the line bounded away.

He was falling. Holding tight to the useless boot. Defoe shrieked in fright and
exasperation. He could see the snaking line above him, and the shadowy form of
the airship starting to dwindle. Five kilometers away, ground rushed silently up
to greet him.

Defoe felt none of the dreamy complacency the dying were supposed to enjoy. Even
in two-thirds g, onto soft grass, he knew he would hit hard, bounce badly, and
not get up. Ever. His navmatrix ticked off the fall. Slow at first. A few meters
per second -- but ever faster. Numbers began to blur.

The horrible silence was broken by the rush of wings. Hands seized him.
Primaries beat frantically. He could feel flaps straining against the sky.

Ellenor Battle had him. Pulling out of her stoop, she was trying to brake, wings
beating against better than twice her weight. Good shot, thought Defoe. But the
wing loading was way too high. He could feel her stalling about to tumble into a
spin -- unless she let go.

But she dug in instead, spreading her wings, defiant to the end. Her contorted
face centimeters from his.

Then came a miraculous jerk, and the impossible happened. Defoe bounded to a
dead stop in midair.

A line stood taut between Ellenor's shoulders. She had clipped a cable to her
harness before diving after him. Staring up at the sky line, Defoe tried to