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

there.”
Klatho shrugged. “Anywhere it wants. Lucky if it doesn’t hit town.
Better you stay near building.”
“Very well. May we go outside to look?”
“If you like. Don’t go far. You can ride out to crash site with emergency
crew, these guys, when ship set down. This okay?”
“Very okay. Thank you, Klatho.”
“No mention.” Klatho turned back to his work; the loud Troof
squeaking and bleating started again at a higher level.
McAleer turned to Zweebl. “Let’s go outside.”
The sky was a brilliant, clear seawater green; visibility was unlimited.
McAleer looked in vain for a vapor trail or some other indication of the
ship’s imminent arrival.
Zweebl was shrilly fuming. “Can’t stand that Klatho, pompous ass of
yerega son of bitch. Self-righteous bastard. Oops, sorry twice.”
McAleer ignored the outburst. “Do you see anything yet?”
“Hmmm.” The Troof squinted. “Can make out little pop of
electromagnetic interference, ‘way up.” He pointed. “Follow finger. You
should see ship soon, that direction.”
“Is it headed for the field?”
“Directly. Good pilot, that boy.”
McAleer sent a few prayers the pilot’s way. Soon, there was a glint in the
sky, in a direction almost opposite to the one Zweebl had indicated.
“I think you made a mistake. I see her,” McAleer said, pointing. “Just
barely.”
“Can’t see her by light yet,” Zweebl complained. “Damn all Earthie
predator eyes. Oops, sorry again. Um, any sign of big trouble?”
“I don’t see smoke or little bits of the ship tearing off, if that’s what you
mean. Her flight line looks smooth enough, too.”
“Oh, I see her now. Yes, you right. May make it, after all. Here’s luck,
Father Mort.”
They watched as the ship grew bigger and bigger. The siren on the
admin building’s roof began to wail a final alarm.
“Still wishing for ears to cover,” Zweebl complained. “Final approach
now.”
McAleer could see the ship’s belly jets suddenly spew exhaust in an
all-or-nothing braking maneuver. At fifty feet of altitude, the ship rolled
over once, then stabilized. It continued to drop slowly.
“Whew!” said Zweebl. “Can’t believe that one!” McAleer could only nod,
his mouth dry.
Mere feet above the field now, its forward speed now negligible, the ship
extended its landing skids. Slowly, with another roar of her belly jets, she
grounded with a deep, grinding groan about five hundred feet from the
admin building. The pilot killed the engines, and McAleer heard the
crackle of cooling metal.
The pilot’s emergency door popped open and a chute rolled out. A figure
in an old-fashioned, bulky spacesuit — obviously the pilot — slipped down
the chute as easily as if the thing had been greased. The pilot ran madly
away from the ship.
“Get down, Zweebl!” yelled McAleer, hitting the dirt and covering his