"S. M. Stirling - Dies the Fire 01 - Dies the Fire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stirling S. M)

areas in summer, taking supplies to isolated ranchers in the winter with skis
on the planes instead of wheels, whatever came to hand. There was a lot of
unroaded territory around this neck of the woods. He glanced at the wall
clock. It wasn't long to sunset,- call it six forty-five, this time of year.
Two hundred forty ground miles to the Montana border, a little more to
wherever the Larssons had their country place, call it two, three hours . . .

"They've got landing lights?" he said.

Mellie snorted. "Would Dan be sending you if they didn't?"

He looked over her shoulder at the screen as he sipped the foul sour coffee,
reading off the names: Kenneth Larsson, his wife Mary, son and daughter Eric
and Signe, both eighteen, and another named Astrid four years younger.

"Larsson . . . Larsson . . . from Portland, businessman?" he said. "Heard the
bossman mention the name once, I think."

Mellie made an affirmative sound as she worked on her PC.
"Old money, timber and wheat-then Ken Larsson tripled it in high tech. Used to
hire us regular, back before 'ninety-six, but not lately. Hasn't brought the
family before."

Havel nodded again,- he'd only been flying for Steelhead since the spring of
'97. It was nice to know that Dan trusted him,- but then, he was damned good
if he said so himself, which he didn't. Not aloud, anyway.

He went through into the office. Dan Fogarty was sitting and chatting with the
clients while Gerta worked behind piles of paper on the desk. There were
wilderness posters and models of old bush planes and books on Idaho and the
Northwest on shelves. And a faint meowing . . .

That was unusual.

The Larssons' youngest had a cat carrier on her lap,- the beast's bulging
yellow eyes shone through the bars, radiating despair and outrage. It wasn't
taking the trip well,- cats seldom did, being little furry Republicans with an
inbuilt aversion to change. Judging from an ammonia waft, it was-literally-
pissed off.

The kid was unusual as well, all huge silver-blue eyes and long white-blond
hair, dressed in some sort of medieval-looking suede leather outfit, her nose
in a book-an illustrated Tolkien with a tooled-leather cover. She had an
honesttogod bow in a case leaning against her chair, and a quiver of arrows.

She kept her face turned to the print, ignoring him. He'd been raised to
consider that sort of behavior rude, but then, she was probably used to
ignoring the chauffeur, and his family hadn't had many employees.

Havel grinned at the thought. His dad had worked the Iron Range mines from the