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

"All human?" A normal enough question, but Ellenor Battle took it badly,
replying with a curt nod. Defoe never knew what was about to bother her. She was
very like a Thai in that way -- moody and demanding. Salome might worship Satan,
but you at least knew where you stood.

A bang and a wail cut off conversation. SuperChimps were refueling the shuttle
for her return to Spindle. Boiling LOX filled the collapsed tanks, screaming
through the safety valves. With an irritated wave, Ellenor led him away from the
ladder. Defoe matched her swift sure strides.

Two huge airship hangars dwarfed the clutter of buildings edging the strip.
Outside the electrified perimeter sprawled Shacktown, one of those shameful
slums-cum-animal-pens that sprang up around an Outback landing field. Cook smoke
climbed lazily over dirty-naked Thai children searching through dung heaps for
breakfast. Plastic honeycomb, narrow alleys and open sewers gave Shacktown the
look and smell of a slave labor camp -- lacking only the camp's energy fences
and city services.

The howl of liquid oxygen faded, and Ellenor went on, "A Thal came into Azur
station with a ship's recorder -- hoping to trade it for booze. When the ship
crashed the survivors were attacked by Tuch-Dahs."

It had been a long time coming, Defoe decided, but all hell had finally broken
out.

The main hangar was packed with nervous armed humans. Defoe was welcomed aboard
by the Port Master, a local worthy who doubled as Mayor of Shacktown, charged
with neglecting sanitation and handing out beer and bhang on election day. The
hangar canteen had been opened for the duration. Drank vigilantes brandished
riot pistols, pepper grenades, and scoped sporting lasers -- as though they
could not decide whether they were faced with a prison break or a big game hunt.
A Tuch-Dah uprising had the worst elements of both.

The quarter-kilometer hangar housed a giant rigid airship, the Joie de Vivre,
belonging to a rancher named Helio from the Azur. Ellenor Battle pushed through
the jittery throng with Defoe in tow, making for the control-car. The gangway
was guarded by a brace of armed Thals, meaner than normal Neanderthals, nearly
as tall as Defoe, and twice as broad looking as thick as they were wide.
Standard airship harnesses supporting stubby grenade launchers and bandoleers of
gas grenades. A pair of dire wolves strained on electronic leashes.

The liquored up posse, loudly aiming to take on the entire Tuch-Dah nation, gave
the two Thals ample space. It was easier to talk of annihilating ten thousand
Neanderthals somewhere out on the steppe than to face down a couple of them
sporting grim looks and civilized weapons.

What the Thals thought, Defoe could hardly guess. Heavy brow ridges hid their
deepset eyes.

A rigger appeared at the top of the gangway -- a Homo sapiens with dark skin,