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

glass did not so much as quiver. The sign of a good crew.

Shacktown and the landing strip fell away to windward. There was a hesitation as
the big props started to turn, biting into thin air. Then airspeed picked up and
they plowed along powered by a cold fusion reactor driving four paired
propellors. The Camelback Steppe rolled placidly along a few hundred meters
below. Springbok bounded off, alarmed by the airship's shadow.

Defoe decided he should see the recorder transmission from Azur Station,
subjecting it to his own prejudices before hearing about it from others. Helio
gave an airy wave. "Use my cabin. I have flying to do."

Ellenor Battle followed Defoe to the cabin, bent on seeing the recording again.
Helio's private quarters were a sumptuous reminder of the good things to be had
on Glory -- hand-carved ivory and fine embroidery --luxuries that people on
Spindle were too busy enjoying themselves to produce. And there was power to be
had as well. Snappy service from human and semi-human attendants. Naked
authority over Chimps, Thals, and Shacktown whores who would do nearly anything
for next to nothing. Exotic animals roamed the endless veldt, ready to be
hunted, killed, and butchered -- the cabin was carpeted with a giant moropus
hide, its head and claws attached. Defoe knew dirtsiders who were not even
tempted by the tame pleasures of Spindle, who snickered when he boarded a
shuttle to go back.

The 3V imager made use of one whole bulkhead, turning curios and tapestries into
a stereo tank.

Images leaped out. Defoe saw at once that the transmission wasn't a proper
flight recording. The transmission had to come from an AID team member's
personal recorder. First came establishing scenes -- the semi-rigid taking off,
steppe wildlife, a couple of male team members. Then came a terrible swift pan
of breathtaking intensity. The recorder was sited on a small rise, aiming
downslope. A low cairn of charred stones poked out of the steppe grass. Defoe
flinched as rocket grenades and recoilless projectiles roared right at the
recorder, a barrage so real that he almost dived out of his wicker seat,
expecting to be showered with exploding shrapnel and shattered bric-a-brac. A
ragged line of Thals came screaming out of the long grass, waving steel hatchets
and hideous spiked clubs. They were Tuch-Dahs -- no doubt there -- Defoe
recognized the garish paint and bloodfreezing cries.

Willungha himself led the charge, atop a full-grown moropus -- a tremendous
horse-headed, long-necked beast with rhino-sized shoulders and tree-trunk limbs.
Like Tars Tarkas aboard a wild thoat, the Neanderthal chieftain brayed commands,
wielding a long thin lance. A grenade launcher in his rein hand looked like a
tiny toy pistol.

Willungha's mount reared, waving clawed forefeet, and the recorder swung
crazily, focusing for a second on the scene atop the knoll. Defoe could clearly
make out the crash site. Kneeling among blackened girders and burnt grass was a
woman, the third member of the AID team. She was small and brown-haired, in a