"Eric Frank Russell - Hobbyist" - читать интересную книгу автора (Russell Eric Frank)

HOBBYIST
by Eric Frank Russell

THE SHIP ARCED OUT OF A GOLDEN SKY AND LANDED WITH A
WHOOP AND a wallop that cut down a mile of lush vegetation. Another half mile of
growths turned black and drooped to ashes under the final flicker of the tail rocket
blasts. That arrival was spectacular, full of verve, and worthy of four columns in any
man's paper. But the nearest sheet was distant by a goodly slice of a lifetime, and
there was none to record what this far corner of the cosmos regarded as the pettiest
of events. So the ship squatted tired and still at the foremost end of the ashy
blasttrack and the sky glowed down and the green world brooded solemnly all
around.
Within the transpex control dome, Steve Ander sat and thought things over. It
was his habit to think things over carefully. Astronauts were not the impulsive
daredevils so dear to the stereopticonloving public. They couldn't afford to be. The
hazards of the profession required an infinite capacity for cautious, contemplative
thought. Five minutes' consideration had prevented many a collapsed lung, many a
leaky heart, many a fractured frame. Steve valued his skeleton. He wasn't conceited
about it and he'd no reason to believe it in any way superior to anyone else's
skeleton. But he'd had it a long time, found it quite satisfactory, and had an intense
desire to keep itintact.
Therefore, while the tail tubes cooled off with their usual creaking contractions,
he sat in the control seat, stared through the dome with eyes made unseeing by deep
preoccupation, and performed a few thinks.
Firstly, he'd made a rough estimate of this world during his hectic approach. As
nearly as he could judge, it was ten times the size of Terra. But his weight didn't
seem abnormal. Of course, one's notions of weight tended to be somewhat wild
when for some weeks one's own weight has shot far up or far down in between
periods of weightlessness. The most reasonable estimate had to be based on
muscular reaction. If you felt as sluggish as a Saturnian sloth, your weight was way
up. If you felt as powerful as Angus McKittrick's bull, your weight was down.
Normal weight meant Terrestrial mass despite this planet's tenfold volume. That
meant light plasma. And that meant lack of heavy elements. No thorium. No nickel.
No nickelthorium alloy. Ergo, no getting back. The KingstonKane atomic motors
demanded fuel in the form of ten gauge nickelthorium alloy wire fed directly into the
vaporizers. Denatured plutonium would do, but it didn't occur in natural form, and it
had to be made. He had three yards nine and a quarter inches of nickelthorium left
on the feedspool. Not enough. He was here for kees.
A wonderful thing, logic. You could start from the simple premise that when you
were seated your behind was no flatter than usual, and work your way to the
inevitable conclusion that you were a wanderer no more. You'd become a native.
Destiny had you tagged as suitable for the status of oldest inhabitant.
Steve pulled an ugly face and said, "Darn!"
The face didn't have to be pulled far. Nature had given said pan a good start.
That is to say, it wasn't handsome. It was a long, lean, nut-brown face with
pronounced jaw muscles, prominent cheekbones, and a thin, hooked nose. This,
with his dark eyes and black hair, gave him a hawklike appearance. Friends talked to
him about tepees and tomahawks whenever they wanted him to feel at home.
Well, he wasn't going to feel at home any more; not unless this brooding jungle
held intelligent life dopey enough to swap ten gauge nickel-thorium wire for a pair of