"Kristine Kathryn Rusch - The Tenth Planet" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

was
thousands of years old.
Bradshaw crouched, hearing his knees crack, and knowing it would take some
work
to get out of this position. He peered into the hole, and saw exactly what he
remembered: a very thin black line several feet down. He knew without
checking
that the five other depth-gauge holes would also contain this black line. It
was
about an eighth of an inch thick and in the same level in each hole.
Considering the depth of the line, his guess was that at least four thousand
years ago something had created this black layer. He knew from the look of
the
layer that it was caused by an exogenic process, but he hadn't cared what
that
process was. It was outside his area of concern. When a stu-dent had asked
him,
he had said that he thought, without testing, that a massive fire had gone
through the region. And that was all the thought he had given it, until this
morning's message.
Bradshaw stared at the thin, black line cutting across the thick dirt of the
wall. Why would someone like Dr. Leo Cross want to know about such a line?
Tracking volcanic eruptions? Large regional fires? Neither seemed likely,
considering Dr. Cross's reputation.
But clearly something interesting to Cross had laid down that line of black
soot
four thousand years before.
Bradshaw shrugged and pulled his coat even tighter around his middle against
the
chill. Then he turned and headed back to his tent. He didn't trust voice
commands for this message. He wanted to make sure each word was the one he
intended, no misunderstandings, no misspellings. He would write to Leo Cross,
and he would use his full-sized keyboard to do it. ^_
This was the closest Bradshaw had been to cutting-edge science since his
disgrace twenty years earlier. And he was still ambitious enough not to want
to
screw this up.
August 16,2017
9:23 A.M. Eastern Daylight Time
240 Days Until Arrival
The black racquetball flashed past, just out of Leo Cross's reach. He
twisted,
his momentum slamming him into the hardwood wall, shoulder first. He rolled
along the wall, ending up with his back against the wood, breathing heavily.
Sweat dripped from his forehead and down his bare arms. His T-shirt was
soaked
and his heart was beating like it wanted to get out and run away from the
torture of this racquetball court. Forty-six years old and he was more out of
shape than he had ever been in his life. How had he let that happen?
"Leo?" Doug Mickelson said, leaning against the other wall, clearly breathing