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

day he got back from Vietnam and got over a case of shrapnel acne picked up at
Khe Sanh,- his father had done the same after getting back from a tour of
Pacific beauty spots like Iwo Jima, in 1945,- his father had done the Belleau
Wood Tour de France in 1918 before settling down to feed the steel mills, and
his father had gone straight into the mines after arriving from Finland in
1895. When the mines weren't hiring, the Havel men cut timber and worked the
little farm the family had acquired around the turn of the century and did any
sort of honest labor that fell their way.

Kenneth Larsson matched the grin and stood, extending a hand. It was soft but
strong,- the man behind it was in his fifties, which made him twice Mike
Havel's age,- graying blond ponytail, shoulders still massive but the beer gut
straining at his expensive leather jacket, square ruddy face smiling.

"Ken Larsson," he said.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Larsson. Havel's the name-Mike Havel."

"Sorry to drag you out so late in the day,- Dan tells me you were on
vacation."

Havel shrugged. "It's no trouble. I wouldn't be bush-flying out of Boise for a
living if I didn't like it."

That brought a chuckle. You can see he's the type who likes to smile, Havel
thought. But he hasn't been doing a lot of it just lately, and that one's a
fake.
"Midwest?" Larsson said shrewdly. That was a lot to pick up from a few words.
"Minnesota? Got some Svenska in there? We're Swedes ourselves, on my side of
the family."
Not much of a surprise, with a moniker like that, Havel thought. Aloud he went
on: "Not too far off, both times. Michigan-Upper Peninsula, the Iron Range.
Finn, mostly, on my father's side. Lot of Swede in Mom's father's family-and
her mother was Ojibwa, so I'm one-quarter."

He ran a hand over his jet-black hair. "Purebred American mongrel!"

"Havel's an odd name for a Finn," Larsson said. "Czech, isn't it?"

"Yeah. When my great-grandfather got to the Iron Range about a hundred years
ago, the mine's Bohunk pay-clerk heard 'Myllyharju' and said right then and
there: 'From now on, your name is Havel!!"

That got a real laugh,- Signe Larsson looked charming when she smiled.

"My wife, Mary," Larsson went on, and did the introductions.

Her handshake was brief and dry. Mary Larsson was about forty, champagne-
colored hair probably still natural, so slim she was almost gaunt. She had the
same wide-eyed look as her younger daughter, except that it came across as