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

and a drooping mustache trained to blend into trim whiskers. Giving a sloppy
sarcastic salute, he led them to the control cat's lounge. He had a gasman's
easy grace, accustomed to balancing on a catwalk in any sort of wind and
weather. Crepe overshoes kept him from raising sparks. "Rig'em Right" was
scrawled across the back of his bullhide flight jacket, and he had the veteran
gasman's grin -- the small ironic smile that said he savored the insanity of
making his living aboard a flying bomb.

Hello had that smile too. He sat by an open lounge window, eyes hidden by blue
wraparound shades. Broad-shouldered as a Thal, the rancher was reckoned to be a
dead shot. Surrounded by a breakfast buffet of cold capon and Azur caviar, he
still looked deadlier than any dozen men outside.

Defoe pulled up a handwoven wicker seat, admiring the gold pattern in his plate.

Ellenor Battle tried to decline brunch, but Helio insisted. "It's no advantage
to be uncomfortable."

No advantage indeed. Defoe let his host pour him some offplanet champagne.
Relaxing under six tons of explosive hydrogen did not stop Helio from doing
himself up right. Silk panelling framed slender lacquered columns.

"The first thing," Helio told his guests, "is to see this recorder-- and the
Thai who found it. We have the transmission from Azur Station. But what is that?
A bunch of digital blips." He smiled behind his blue shades, kissing off the
tips of his fingers. Electronic evidence was notoriously manipulatable
-inadmissible in honest courts.

"So long as we get going." Ellenor Battle glared out the open window at the
panicky mob scene below.

Defoe agreed. He too wanted to see the recorder -- and the Thal who found it.
But most immediately he had to get out of this idiotic atmosphere with its
infectious panic. Once underway, things were bound to be better. Hello was
supposed to understand Thals, and conditions in Tuch-Dah Country -- as well as
anyone could pretend to. Besides, if there was any answer to the disappearance
of the AID team, it was going to be "out there." Somewhere in the endless
unknown that lay beyond the fringes of settlement, even on human-made planets.
Defoe was fairly at peace with that. Hell, at the moment he made a dubious
living off it.

Helio gave orders from the table, speaking through the open window and into the
ship's comlink, letting the Port Master's young assistant come aboard, along
with a couple of sober gunmen. The rest of the mob would be more of a threat to
themselves than to the Tuch-Dahs. A gang of SuperChimps hauled on the ground
lines and the cabin began to move.

As they cleared the hangar, Defoe had his navmatrix lock into the onboard
systems. Everything read right. Gas pressure. Wind speed. Elevator alignment.
Keel angle. When Helio gave the order to "up ship," the champagne in Defoe's