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

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."

During the trip, Helton began to suspect The Rev was right; Christiana didn't
likely know much more about the oldest profession than one might learn in a
steamy romance novel. But there was a big boom happening on Zarathustra, with
fortunes to be made by all sorts of means; if Christiana said she was going
there to clean up on the influx of population generated by the Pendarvis
Decisions, Helton was willing to go along with it.

It made little difference to him, anyway. He was just as glad to be by himself
as around others. He was used to operating alone. There were very few Master
Gunnery Sergeants of Fleet Marines, so it was not the usual thing for him to
settle in with his peer group at cocktail hour and talk shop. Maybe once every
year or two he would run into another Master Gunnie. Mostly he just did his
job, auditing weapons systems, gunnery performance, and readiness levels. Most
often he traveled by civilian transportation to avoid excessively widespread
knowledge of his destination and wasn't much obliged to answer to anyone below
the rank of Fleet Admiral or Force-General.

"Is our fellow passenger about, this morning?" Christiana asked.

"I didn't see him at breakfast," Helton replied, "but then I never see him at
breakfast." He looked at the readout on the wall. "Nearly ten hundred,
galactic standard, though. The bar will open in a few minutes and that should
fetch him out."

I rarely see you at breakfast, either, he thought, but I suppose you're in the
habit of sleeping late in the morning.

Chapter 3

At the first rattle of ice into the bin as the barman began to open up, the
third passenger appeared in the companionway as though answering a mysterious
call to nature. He was sporting a Zarathustran sunstone in the neckcloth below
his clerical collar. At the start of the trip he had introduced himself-rather
grandiloquently-as "The Right Reverend Father Thomas Aquinas Gordon," but
allowed as how he would answer just as readily to "Rev," "Tom," "Father G,"or
"Thursday."