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

that everything on board was shipshape. He double-checked the straps and buckles on all of the cargo
crates, just to make sure they'd been properly secured.

Next he checked the topside sail locker, taking care to see that the spare sails were properly stored and
ready for deployment when the need arose. If all went well he wouldn't have to replace the sails on this
trip, which would help his profit margin. Having them fabricated in orbit and brought down by elevator
was bloody expensive.
He swung the power-lifters from their clamps and started working on the new sail. He strained against
the resistance of the tough foil of the sail as he refolded it. Even so, he tried to keep from flexing the thin
metal more than was necessary.

As soon as he had the sail properly folded and secured, he moved it into its canister. His arms ached as
he struggled to get it into the correct position, cursing the financial situation that forced him to fire his crew
three months before and the expediency that kept him from having the time in dock to do this sort of
housekeeping. One person could barely cope with the bulky sails against the drag of Jupiter's heavy
gravity. Even with the one hundred-to-one ratio of the lifters, he still had to depend on his own muscle to
force the cumbersome rig into the canister.

Finally the sail was loaded. He stowed the lifters and rubbed his aching back before fastening the heavy
chain lines at the head end of the sail; one line that would lift it into place on the mast and another to
connect it to the traveler that limited a sail's movement across the top deck.

Whenever he had to blow the main its lines would go with it. The lines were another expense he wished
that he could avoid. But the only way to save them was to suit up, climb out onto deck, and try to
disconnect them while fighting hurricane force winds. Only a fool went outside without a backup crew, no
matter how securely he was clamped to the deck! The lost money for lines wasn't as important to him as
his life.

By the time Rams worked his way back to the cockpit, Primrose had moved far north of the station.
From this position he could start to tack without the risk of running into it. Just to make certain of his
clearance, he peered at the screen, cranking the radar to maximum sensitivity to check.

The screen showed a uniform blur of undifferentiated noise; not even a shadow that could be suspected
of being something other than the swirling electronic mist of atmosphere.

Rams and Primrose were now completely on their own and, in five days, more or less, he hoped to see
the faint, white heat signature of his destination. He hoped that the storm wouldn't spoil his plansтАФhe
needed the money to make the next payment!



"What a dump," Louella complained loudly. She threw her bag against the bare metal deck and watched
as it lazily bounced back into the air. "Not even a bar on the place! To make matters worse I have to
share the damned cabin with you. I can't even have some gods-be-damned decent privacy before the
race!"

Pascal winced at the strident tone of her voice. He regretted accompanying her throughout the long
voyage from Earth to the Jovian system. He should have come on another ship.

Louella's growing catalog of complaints had increased throughout the long transit from Earth. Thankfully,