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

cell? Do you think they're starting their northward leg already?"

Pascal checked the inertial. Thorn was still a few hours from their planned turning point. "Let them go,"
he said. "Concentrate on our own course while I grab some sleep."



Pascal was having difficulty staying awake during his shift at the wheel. The days of five hour sleep
cycles, bland food, and lack of exercise were taking their toll. On most of the long races on Earth he at
least could stand on the deck, stretch, and get a breath of air to refresh himself. Down here, in Jupiter's
atmosphere, he couldn't even stand upright, much less sniff the air blowing by outside the boat. Not that
he'd want to, he hastily amended.

But it was dry, as Louella had said, and that was something. He recalled how he'd always hated the
pervasive dampness, the clinging, sticky moisture that characterized every ocean race.

Thorn's trim felt wrong, as if she was lumbering in thick syrup, even though her speed was good.
Perhaps, he thought, the boat would have a better feel if she rode a little higher, a little lighter.

He clicked on the heaters in the ballast hold. They had pumped nearly four tons of liquefied gas from the
bottom of the keel into the ballast tank to set their present trim. The heaters would expand the liquid and
force the ballast out. He turned them off after an hour, when the trim felt better.



On the seventh day of their run they rounded CS-15 on their port side and watched the vivid image
displayed on their radar screen until it faded back into the ambient noise. Pascal had dutifully recorded
the close passage, to prove that they had indeed rounded the mark, while Louella concentrated on
keeping Thorn a safe distance away. To do so she maneuvered the winches to switch the sails from side
to side, slipping a little to slew the craft about without losing momentum.

As much as they'd like to do so, there was no time to stop, and no way to find out whether the station
knew that they had passed. They'd tried the radio, but the deafening noise of atmospheric static masked
any reply.

"I wish we could find out which boats have already gone by," Pascal remarked as he stowed the log and
climbed wearily into his bunk. He loosened the truss and breathed a sigh of relief.
"The hell with them," Louella answered weakly in a voice that revealed that she too was getting tired.
"We just have to do the best we can and hope that the rest do worse. That's what racing is all about."

"Yeah, remember the last WhitbreadтАФdidn't see another boat the whole race. It was like we had the
whole ocean to ourselves."

"Not much fun there. What I remember is sitting dead in the water for three days while the Sun baked us
to a crisp; no wind, no progress. It was only luck that we caught the edge of that storm and got a boost."

"Won the race, didn't we? Luck falls to those with the most skill," Pascal said encouragingly.

"Let's just hope it works this time as well," she said dryly. "Now get some shut-eye so you can relieve me
in two hours."