"Anderson, Poul - Operation Luna" - читать интересную книгу автора (Anderson Poul)

Ginny laid a cautionary hand on mine and a smile on the janus. "Of
course," she murmured. "No offense. Excuse us if we're in a hurry, Mr.
Gitling. Actually, once the beast rises, what you see ought to be better
than the mere liftoff." He dissolved into amiability and waved us
through.

The paths beyond lay dim, almost deserted. Everybody not in Mission
Control wanted to be at a viewing station. Buildings enclosed us, murky
against the sky-sheen from the launch paddock ahead. Off on the left,
rising above roofs, the great onion dome of the VAB caught some of that
light. The moon barely cleared the walls opposite; its cold,
blue-blazoned shield still looked huge.

I did not plan on skinturning. In fact, I seldom transformed at all
anymore, aside from an occasional romp out in the desert or, once in a
while, to amuse little Chryssa. Her siblings had long since taken
Daddy's trick for granted. Nevertheless, as the moonbeams caught me, I
felt a strong urge. Excitement, no doubt, weakening inhibitions,
stirring ancient instincts.

I quelled the lust by asking, quite sincerely, "What is the trouble with
Will, anyway? In the hullabaloo, I didn't get a chance to find out."

"I'm not sure either," Ginny replied. "Nor is he, I suppose. He phoned
to say he felt terrible and would stay home and try to sleep off
whatever it is."

"A dirty shame. He's probably as responsible for getting a space program
started as any man alive."

"Yes, and has it as dear to his heart." Hearing the trouble in Ginny's
tone, I glanced at her and saw how she bit her lip. "Steve, I've been
worried about him."

"Um-m, yeah, he has seemed a bit odd lately, now and then. Sort of…
absent. But I figured he was preoccupied."

"No, it's not his research, his instruments. He's hardly said a word
about them, which in itself is peculiar. I have an impression he's
actually neglecting them, or at best tinkering without making progress.
But he doesn't volunteer any information, he's dodged my few
questions--"

If anyone would have sound intuitions about Will Graylock, I thought,
it'd be his sister. She was nine years old, he twenty-one when an
accident orphaned them. Circumstances then kept them more apart than
together, but he was always kind and caring, the closest figure to a
father she had. We'd been delighted when he resigned from Flagstaff and
moved out here shortly after we did, with a National Parascience