"Allen Steele - Orbital Decay" - читать интересную книгу автора (Steele Allen)

"We're in luck," Dave said. "Found a break in the cloud cover. We're
somewhere over the Gulf near northern Florida. We want to . . . ?"

"Yeah, let me handle it." He gripped the joystick and gingerly
maneuvered the telescope. It wasn't much different than handling the
hand control of an MMU backpack, requiring the same delicate touch, and
he had already done it a couple of previous times when he'd been down
to the weather station.

Watching the screen, he glided above azure waters thousands of miles
away, yet so seemingly close he could imagine himself in an ultralight
plane sailing above the ocean. His body tensed, and he stared at the
afternoon sunlight glinting faintly on the gentle wave caps. Suddenly
a tiny sliver coasted into view: a boat, trailing whiskery lines of
wake behind it.



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"Zoom in more, please," he murmured, his eyes fixed on the screen.

Dave obliged, leaning over Hooker's hunched shoulders to tap
instructions into the telescope. The screen zoomed in closer and the
white sliver enlarged to become a twin-mast sailboat, its sails filled
with wind, its bow plunging in and out of the surf. The deck was a
white oval. For a second he could see--he thought he could see--a
tiny, thin brown spot on the foredeck. A woman sunbathing near the
bow. At least, so it seemed. Hooker strained his eyes, almost pushing
his face against the screen. There was no longer a carpeted floor
under his feet; he felt the varnished, slippery deck. For an instant
the air changed, becoming warmer, the most remote hint of fish smell
mixed in with salt....

He thought of Laura. She leaned against the rail on the starboard
stern; blue halter top, faded jeans, chestnut brown hair blown back by
the warm autumn breeze, highlighted by the orange setting sun, a
tumbler of Scotch on the rocks in her right hand Laughing . . . He
remembered what her face looked like, that afternoon. A glint of gold
against the blue, sinking, swallowed by the deep blue. Gone, forever
gone . . . He shut his eyes.

Cold, as only Atlantic waters can be cold. Salt water in his mouth.

The night so dark, dark as death. Flames on the water, crackling in
the distance, consuming a dark lump in the center, smoke rising against
the starlight. He reopened his eyes. White clouds had scudded into
view, blocking the view on the screen. The boat, the girl--all