"Tuning, William - Terro-Human - Fuzzy 04 - Fuzzy Bones 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tuning William)

Helton smiled. "Oh, I don't know. There are people who just have that old soft spot in them."

"Hunh!" The Rev grumped. "I 'd hate to have to hold my breath between meeting the first one and the next one."

"Now that you've muffed your first great deduction," Helton said, "what do you think her game is?"

The Rev shrugged and swigged from his drink. "She might be a spoiled rich kid who's out to get even with Mommy and Daddy-come home from Zarathustra with a 1 bundle of money and rub their noses in how it was earned. Or, she might have a decrepit old Mum back home on Terra, and this is the only way she can earn enough sols fast enough to let the old lady live out her last years in style and respectability."

"Sadie Thompson, and all that," Helton mused.

"Star-travel makes strange bedfellows," The Rev said. He rapped his knuckles on the bar for two more drinks. "Who was that you were quoting a minute ago?"

"You mean, 'Tis a pity . . .'?" Helton asked.

The Rev nodded.

"John Ford," Helton said.

The Rev stroked his chin a moment. "John Ford the First Century screenplay director?"

Helton smiled. "John Ford the obscure Elizabethan dramatist; Fourth Century Pre-Atomic."

The Rev's eyebrows shot up. "Pretty exotic reading for a Gunnie."

Helton looked at him levelly. "I get a lot of time for reading," he said.

"So do I," The Rev said, "so do I."

Chapter 2

Helton smiled as he recalled the conversation, which took place only a few days out from Terra.

He stood, now, with his feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back, and rocked up and down on the balls of his feet. It was a habit of his which tended to cause nervousness in units and commands he was auditing; one of the principal assets in his trade was the ability to keep people just a little bit off balance.

At one point in his life he had owned a pair of boots which squeaked softly as he rocked on the balls of his feet. They had been among his most favored possessions, because with them he could, at will, cause others to be visibly disturbed in his presence.

There was no one to audit at the moment. There was not even another Terran human on the first-class lounge deck; only Philip Helton standing in front of the armor-glass observation screen, auditing the star-pinioned darkness of space beyond the vessel-and rocking slightly on the balls of his feet.

One of the moons of Zarathustra was slowly traversing the screen, but at this distance Helton couldn't tell which one. It might be Xerxes, the site of his next assignment at the huge Navy base that occupied all of it; or it might be Darius, where Terra-Baldur-Marduk Spacelines maintained Zarathustra's commercial port.

The City of Asgard would dock on Darius in about two hours-just in time to disrupt everyone's lunch schedule.

Helton turned toward the small noise behind him.

"Good morning, Sergeant," Christiana Stone said, as she walked across the carpeted deck toward him.

"I would think," he said, "that after six months of travel in hyperspace, you might not find it improper to call me by my first name."

The dim starlight from the observation screen reflected on her reddish-blond hair as she smiled good-naturedly. "I suppose so-Phil," she replied. "I find it difficult to be informal with people, though. It's a business habit."