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

The crew chief bristled. "Of course I did," he said gruffly. "I don't appreciate you sayin' that I don't know
how to do my job."

"Really? Well, I don't like you telling me how to sail a boat either, asshole!" she shot back. She moved to
examine the other mast as the crew chief licked his wounds.



While Louella and the crew chief were above deck, Pascal examined the hull. The keel had already been
retracted from the meter-by-meter safety inspection. The huge weights at the ends of the double keel
swung slowly from side to side as Thorn bobbed up and down. Thorn was just a balloon when she
wasn't under way. The keels' slender foils hardly seemed strong enough to support the three hundred
tons of droplet-shaped weights. The blunt nose of the forward weight was smooth and bright, as if it had
been polished. There were several long gouges along the sides.

"Impact scars," the crewman said as she reached across the gap and shoved her glove inside one of the
larger ones. "There's always some gravel being driven around the atmosphere, especially down deep,
where the keel runs. Sometimes they're pretty big and movin' fast. That's what made these dings, y'see."

Pascal was still staring at the thin ribbons that supported the weights. Each was only a few centimeters
thick, hardly the width of his hand. One rip from a rough piece of gravel, he thought, and the ribbon could
be severed and the weight would be released, dropping down into the depths far, far below.

Suddenly he realized that he was only one step away from the edge of the inspection platform. One step
away from a fall that wouldn't stop until he reached a pressure level that would crush and kill him,
compressing his suit and body into a tiny mass. He would still fall until it hit the layer of metallic hydrogen,
hundreds and hundreds of kilometers below the station. No, that wasn't really true; he wouldn't fall that
far. His body would come to rest somewhere where his density was equal to the surrounding
atmosphere.

But he'd still be dead.

A wave of vertigo overcame him. He stumbled back from the dangerous precipice. "I ... I need to get
back inside," he told his escort, clamping his hand on the safety line. "Now!" he shouted when the
crewman didn't respond at once. He had to get away from that horrid drop.



Twelve hours later Rams realized that he was in serious trouble. Whenever he tried to head due north, he
was forced farther west of his planned track. To be so affected at this distance meant that the storm was
immense.

He prepared for the coming storm. The two things a sailor had to remember about surviving a storm,
whether on Jupiter or on Earth, were either to be prepared, or be elsewhere. Rams began to go through
Primrose and secure her. Even a small item flying about in a two-g field could do substantial damage.

The galley and his own cabin were easy. Rams made it a practice to stow everything until needed. Just
the same, he went through every locker to make sure that nothing would fall out and surprise him. He
poured hot tea into a thermos and stowed that, along with some bread, in the cockpit.