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

head with his hands. Zweebl followed suit.
The small ship gave up the ghost and, with a thundering report, blew
itself to shards. The pilot, still too close, was caught by the blast and
tossed head over heels.
McAleer and Zweebl felt a hot gust of air and bits of dirt and debris
rush over them; behind them, several windows in the admin building
shattered. McAleer could hear high-pitched native cursing amid the sharp
cracking and tinkling sounds of breaking glass. There goes that big
window, among other things, the priest told himself. Hope no one’s hurt.
Carefully, McAleer raised his head, to see Zweebl already up and
heading at his best speed for where the pilot lay sprawled on the tarmac.
McAleer was quick to follow.
Puffing, McAleer reached Zweebl, already bent over the limp form of the
pilot. Even at some distance, McAleer could feel the intense heat from the
blazing ruin of the pilot’s spacecraft. Opening his medikit, he took the
probe and passed it closely over the pilot’s still form, scanning for evidence
of gross injury — about the limit of his ability with the thing. McAleer
found nothing major — bumps and bruises, maybe a sprung shoulder, but
no broken bones and no internal bleeding.
McAleer decided it would be better if he and Zweebl, rather than the
Troof he could hear pattering toward them, moved the pilot away from the
flaming wreck; Lord knew how the Troof might decide to do it. Drag the
pilot behind a cart, maybe; not only were they largely ignorant of human
physiology, but they were also pretty mad. At least McAleer would be
careful of the pilot’s neck; the Troof, having none, might not be.
Carefully, McAleer straightened out the pilot’s body. Out cold, he
thought. How deeply, I don’t know. I can’t see inside the helmet, and
there’s no readout panel on the suit. “Zweebl, we’d better try to get him
out of this thing,” he said. “We’re going to have to move him. Don’t let his
head drop as I remove the helmet.”
“Right, Father.” Zweebl looked very serious.
 McAleer undid the hasps that held the helmet to the suit, and gently
eased it away.
“I’ll be,” the priest breathed. “It’s a woman.”
“A what?”
“A woman. A female human.”
“Oh. Like Virgin Mary? Eve of Adam story, stolen rib?”
“Um, yes, sort of. A woman.”
“You sure?” Zweebl asked. He peered. “Never saw one before. Her head
just as round as yours. Can’t tell difference.”
“Well, I can. And she’s alive. Just unconscious.”
“Can tell that.”
“Better get me some water. No, wait. Ask one of them.” McAleer
pointed. A gaggle of Troof was running toward them; the priest thought
he recognized Klatho in the lead, looking as angry as any Troof could. It
was hard for McAleer to tell, even after some practice.
Zweebl chattered and squeaked at Klatho and the others in their native
tongue. Klatho made a surprisingly puzzled, almost skeptical, response.
Zweebl responded insistently. Finally, two of Klatho’s co-workers headed
back to the admin building.