"Brad Ferguson - To Tell The Troof" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ferguson Brad)

“We’ll have to take the car,” McAleer said. Zweebl grimaced. McAleer
smiled faintly. “Is the fuel tank filled?”
“Last time I look.”
“Very well. Church first. Come on.” They left the mission residence
through the connecting door to the small chapel.
Once inside the darkened church, McAleer went to the altar,
genuflected, and opened the door to the small tabernacle; Zweebl waited
in the rear of the church. McAleer secured several consecrated wafers and
placed them carefully in his pyx. Forgive the rush, Lord, he murmured as
he hastily closed the tabernacle door.
“All done, Zweebl,” he said. “Let’s hurry.” The two left the church by the
front door.
McAleer’s only transportation was an old, rusting gevster left behind by
the trade group that used to be on Henderson; it had taken McAleer a
great deal of tinkering to get it to run. The priest kept the heap parked by
the side of the residence, covered with an old tarp; he pulled it off, getting
himself rather dusty in the process, and Zweebl punched the codes to
unlock the doors. The two got in, and McAleer quickly hit the ignition
codes; the dual turbines started with a loud roar.
“Ye gads,” said Zweebl. “Wish had ears to cover.”
McAleer glanced at the fuel indicator; it showed only a quarter of a
tank. McAleer could not indulge in casual conversation — he was carrying
the Host — but he wished he could ask Zweebl just when he’d last looked
at that indicator. It wasn’t important right now — a quarter of a tank was
more than enough to get them to the field and back — but it annoyed
McAleer; it added an item to the list of things Zweebl had fudged.
The priest fed more power to the turbines; the gevster lifted unevenly
for a foot and then came level. Dust and trash flying around them,
McAleer pushed the stick forward gently and, with a start, the gevster
drunkenly weaved its way ahead, trying to find its air legs.
“Here goes nothing,” Zweebl said. “Every time we do this, neighbors
complain like hell.”
McAleer gestured Zweebl to be silent, and tapped the jacket pocket in
which he was carrying the pyx. “Oh,” said Zweebl, suddenly
understanding. “Didn’t realize. Forgive.” McAleer nodded.
The gevster finally found its internal rhythm and noisily whooshed
ahead on a reasonably straight course.
Fifteen minutes later, the gevster roared to a halt in front of the landing
field’s small administration building. McAleer popped the gevster’s doors,
and he and Zweebl hurried out amid the settling dust and leaves.
The control room was just off the small lobby, and boasted an excellent
view of the landing field, thanks to a big window typical of Troof
construction. The Troof liked light and air. Entering, McAleer could see
Klatho, the field superintendent, gesturing excitedly and squeaking orders
to the two other Troof in the room. Klatho noticed the arrival of McAleer
and Zweebl at about the same moment.
“Hello, Father, Zweebl,” Klatho called. “Ship made it through
atmospheric skip maneuver, don’t ask me how. Approaching field. One hot
damn pilot, that boy.”
“Where on the field will the ship set down?” McAleer asked. “I should be