"Bud Sparhawk - Primrose and Thorn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sparhawk Bud)

microwave oven and a recessed sinkтАФhidden under the working surfaceтАФran along the second
bulkhead, to the right. Their food and medical supplies were stored in hanging bags, Velcroed to the
bulkhead above the microwave.

On the opposite bulkhead was a fold-down table whose opened edge would be in the lap of whoever
was sitting on the seat. The navigation instruments, computer, and the storage for charts and instruments
were revealed when the table was down. Rams could reach out with his left arm and just about touch the
edge of the helmsman's seat, it was that close. For a big boat Thorn had mighty small crew quarters.

"Maybe we shouldn't have picked a cargo haulerтАФit's a little cramped, isn't it?" Louella remarked as she
ducked her head to peek into the compartment. "Place looked a lot roomier in the plans. I guess the
crew wasn't supposed to stay aboard for more than a day or two."

Pascal looked around. "Why couldn't they convert some of that cargo hold? This is pretty tight. I don't
relish spending a couple of weeks in here." "Too much trouble just to give us a little bit of comfort. I don't
think the expense would be worth itтАФmight upset the boat's balance."

Pascal sighed and wiggled in the tiny seat, trying to find a way to stretch his legs full length, and failed.
"The navigator's station on the Bermuda run was bigger than this," he complained. He tried to put his
arms out and his right elbow hit the hanging bags. He sighed againтАФthis was going to be damned
uncomfortable.

"Yeah, but you weren't nearly as warm and dry," Louella reminded him. "I don't mind cramped spaces
during a race. Hell, on most of our races, dry underwear's a luxury! Count your blessings, Pascal. Count
your blessings."

While Pascal squeezed up the narrow tube to examine the sail locker, Louella sat in the helmsman's seat.
She let her hands run over the controls. She loved the slightly sticky feel of the wrappings on the wheel.
Here and there she noted the faint, oily marks Thorn's captains' sweating hands had put there.

A bright, shining circle was worn into the dull metal beside the winch controls. She reached for a knob,
as if to activate it, and noticed that the heel of her hand centered on the worn spot. How many hundreds
of times had another hand briefly touched there to wear the finish like that, she wondered. How many
captains had sat in this seat to guide the tiny craft across the dark seas of Jupiter? In her mind, those
other captains were a palpable presence in the tiny cabin, a trace of the boat's memory. Directly in front
of the helmsman's seat were the screens that displayed the fore and aft camera views. Their controls
were in easy reach, just below them. To her left were the inertial display unit, the pressure gauges, and
various station-keeping controls. The housekeeping controls were mounted beneath the seat, where they
could be reached from the stateroom.

On a swing arm above the wheel were the primary control readouts: sail pressure gauges, wind indicator,
barometer, and dead reckoning display. Once they were under way she'd be completely dependent on
them.

There was a clatter as Pascal wormed his way out of the tube. "Sail sets look OK," he said, as he slid
across the deck and dropped into the stateroom's seat. "We've got spares for every sail, plus the extras
that you ordered. All of them are marked and set for loading."

"Did you make sure that we have enough lines? I don't want to get caught short on tack once we get out
of here."