"Gordon R. Dickson - Tiger Green" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dickson Gordon R)

By such small things was the scale toward tragedy tipped. A
communication problem with the natives, a native jungle evidently
determined to digest the spaceship, and eight of twelve men down with
something like suicidal delirium tremens – any two of these things the
Team could probably have handled.
But not all three at once.
Jerry and Ben reached the entrance of the Control Room together and
peered in, looking for Milt Johnson. "Must be ootside, talking to that native
again," said Jerry.
"Ootside? – oot – side!" exploded Ben, with a sudden snapping of
frayed nerves. "Can't you say 'out-side'? – 'out-side,' like everybody else?"
The berserk something in Jerry lunged to be free, but he caught it and
hauled it back.
"Get hold of yourself!" he snapped.
"Well . . . I wouldn't mind you sounding like a blasted Scotchman all the
time!" growled Ben, getting himself, nevertheless, somewhat under control.
"It's just you always do it when I don't expect it!"
"If the Lord wanted us all to sound alike, he'd have propped up the Tower
of Babel," said Jerry wickedly. He was not particularly religious himself, but
he knew Ben to be a table-thumping atheist. He had the satisfaction now of
watching the other man bite his lips and control himself in his turn.
Academically, however, Jerry thought as they both headed out through
the ship to find Milt, he could not really blame Ben. For Jerry, like many
Scot-Canadians, appeared to speak a very middle-western American sort
of English most of the time. But only as long as he avoided such vocabulary
items as "house" and "out," which popped off Jerry's tongue as "hoose"
and "oot." However, every man aboard had his personal peculiarities. You
had to get used to them. That was part of spaceship – in fact, part of human
– life.
They emerged from the lock, rounded the nose of the spaceship, and
found themselves in the neat little clearing on one side of the ship where
the jungle paradoxically refused to grow. In this clearing stood the
broad-shouldered figure of Milt Johnson, his whitish-blond hair glinting in
the yellow-white sunlight.


Facing Milt was the thin, naked, and saddle-colored humanoid figure of
one of the natives from the village, or whatever it was, about twenty minutes
away by jungle trail. Between Milt and the native was the glittering metal
console of the translator machine.
". . . Let's try it once more," they heard Milt saying as they came up and
stopped behind him.
The native gabbled agreeably.
"Yes, yes. Try it again," translated the voice of the console.
"I am Captain Milton Johnson. I am in authority over the crew of the ship
you see before me."
"Gladly would I not see it," replied the console on translation of the
native's jabblings. "However – I am Communicator, messenger to you sick
ones."
"I will call you Communicator, then," began Milt.