"Michael Swanwick - The Very Pulse Of The Machine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

Whatever knob or flange had punched the hole in Burton's helmet had
been equally ruthless with her head.
Where a fraction of the vent-blizzardтАФ"lateral plumes" the planetary
geologists called themтАФhad been deflected by the boulder, a bank of sulfur
dioxide snow had built up. Automatically, without thinking, Martha
scooped up double-handfuls and packed them into the helmet. Really, it
was a nonsensical thing to do; in a vacuum, the body wasn't about to rot.
On the other hand, it hid that face.
Then Martha did some serious thinking.
For all the fury of the blizzard, there was no turbulence. Because there
was no atmosphere to have turbulence in. The sulfur dioxide gushed out
straight from the sudden crack that had opened in the rock, falling to the
surface miles away in strict obedience to the laws of ballistics. Most of
what struck the boulder they'd crashed against would simply stick to it,
and the rest would be bounced down to the ground at its feet. So
thatтАФthis was how she'd gotten out in the first placeтАФit was possible to
crawl under the near-horizontal spray and back to the ruins of the
moonrover. If she went slowly, the helmet light and her sense of feel ought
to be sufficient for a little judicious salvage.
 Martha got down on her hands and knees. And as she did, just as
quickly as the blizzard had begunтАФit stopped.
She stood, feeling strangely foolish.
Still, she couldn't rely on the blizzard staying quiescent. Better hurry,
she admonished herself. It might be an intermittent.
Quickly, almost fearfully, picking through the rich litter of wreckage,
Martha discovered that the mother tank they used to replenish their
airpacks had ruptured. Terrific.
That left her own pack, which was one-third empty, two fully charged
backup packs, and Burton's, also one-third empty. It was a ghoulish thing
to strip Burton's suit of her airpack, but it had to be done. Sorry, Julie.
That gave her enough oxygen to last, let's see, almost forty hours.
Then she took a curved section of what had been the moonrover's hull
and a coil of nylon rope, and with two pieces of scrap for makeshift
hammer and punch, fashioned a sledge for Burton's body.
She'd be damned if she was going to leave it behind.
Click.

"This is. Better."
"Says you."
Ahead of her stretched the hard, cold sulfur plain. Smooth as glass.
Brittle as frozen toffee. Cold as hell. She called up a visor-map and checked
her progress. Only forty-five miles of mixed terrain to cross and she'd
reach the lander. Then she'd be home free. No sweat, she thought. Io was
in tidal lock with Jupiter. So the Father of Planets would stay glued to one
fixed spot in the sky. That was as good as a navigation beacon. Just keep
Jupiter to your right shoulder, and Daedalus to your left. You'll come out
fine.
"Sulfur is. Triboelectric."
"Don't hold it in. What are you really trying to say?"
"And now I see. With eye serene. The very. Pulse. Of the machine." A