"Smith, Wilbur - Courtney 01 - The Burning Shore" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Wilbur)

when it came he reached into the deep pocket of his fleece-lined flying
jacket and brought out a silver flask with a big yellow cairngorm set in
the stopper and poured a liberal dram into the steaming mug.

Michael held the first sip in his mouth, swirling it around, letting the
fragrant spirit sting and prickle his tongue, then he swallowed and the
heat hit his empty stomach and almost instantly he felt the charge of
alcohol through his bloodstream.

He smiled at Andrew across the table. Magic, he whispered huskily, and
blew on his fingertips.

Water of life, my boy. Michael loved this dapper little man as he had
never loved another man, more than his own father, more even than his
Uncle Sean who had previously been the pillar of his existence.

It had not been that way from the beginning. At first meeting, Michael
had been suspicious of Andrew's extravagant, almost effeminate good
looks, his long, curved eyelashes, soft, full lips, neat, small body,
dainty hands and feet, and his lofty bearing.

One evening soon after his arrival on the squadron, Michael was teaching
the other new chums how to play the game of Bok-Bok. Under his
direction one team formed a human pyramid against a wall of the mess,
while the other team attempted to collapse them by taking a full run and
then hurling themselves on top of the structure. Andrew had waited for
the game to end in noisy chaos and had then taken Michael aside and told
him, We do understand that you hail from somewhere down there below the
equator, and we do try to make allowances for you colonials. However-
Their relationship had thenceforth been cool and distant, while they had
watched each other shoot and fly.

As a boy, Andrew had learned to take the deflection of a red grouse,
hurtling wind-driven only inches above the tops of the heather. Michael
had learned the same skills on rocketing Ethiopian snipe and sand-grouse
slanting on rapid wingbeat down the African sky. Both of them had been
able to adapt their skills to the problem of firing a Vickers
machine-gun from the unstable platform of a Sopwith Pup roaring through
the three dimensions of space.

Then they watched each other fly. Flying was a gift.

Those who did not have it died during the first three weeks; those who
did, lasted a little longer. After a month Michael was still alive, and
Andrew spoke to him again for the first time since the evening of the
game of BokBok in the mess.

Courtney, you will fly on my wing today, was all he said.

It was to have been a routine sweep down the line.