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

“Taken care of,” Zweebl told McAleer. “Water be here soon.”
“Was there a problem?”
“Not one damn bit. Oops, sorry again. To continue. Also asked for
human-size pallet — um, stretcher — to move woman pilot. Never mind
taking off suit now. Presume you want to get away from big fiery mess?”
“You presume correctly,” McAleer said. “In fact, why don’t we try to
move her without the stretcher? She’s not very big, although the suit
weighs. I’d like to get her behind the building, just in case that ship has
another surprise in store for us.”
“Better pray it doesn’t,” Zweebl said. “I take feet, you take head?”
“Right. Try not to jiggle her around too much. Uh, just let me unhook
the backpack first.” The straps of the heavy pack unbuckled easily; it
dropped away.
The weight of the woman and the suit was just within the ability of
McAleer and Zweebl to cope. The priest noted with some anger that none
of the admin building personnel had made a move to assist them. McAleer
fumed silently but said nothing; it was now as it ever had been, ever since
the priest had arrived on Henderson. It was a few hundred difficult feet
back to the rear of the admin building, and Zweebl moved even more
slowly than the old priest, but they made it.
The handle controlling the roof of the gevster was starboard amidships,
just within reach of McAleer’s foot. He tromped on the handle and the roof
rose, squealing on its hinges. McAleer and Zweebl carefully placed the
still-unconscious pilot in the rear seat; Zweebl strapped her in.
“Hey!” came a high-pitched cry. “Zweebl! You wanted water? Got some.
Can’t find stretcher. Probably got swiped by ilantha con artist.”
Zweebl grew even more purple with anger. McAleer saw Klatho coming
toward them from the admin building, a standard-issue canteen in hand.
Zweebl looked at McAleer inquiringly; the priest nodded.
“Bring, already, fool,” called Zweebl. “Time wasting.”
Klatho shrugged, uncaring. “Sorry. Had to send others to fight big fire
caused by priest’s compatriot. Remember?” he had the air of one pointing
out the obvious to a simpleton. “Don’t suppose you two want to assist in
fierce battle, maybe?”
Zweebl flared. “As much as you assist us in heroic feat of dragging
woman off field, incompetent!”
“Woman? What that?”
“Hah! Uneducated ass!”
McAleer held up a hand. “Thank you for the water, Klatho,” he said
mildly, taking the canteen. “Zweebl, is there a cloth of some sort in the
car?”
Zweebl gave a quick look. “Nope. Tissues in box, though, under seat.”
He fetched them.
“Thank you.” McAleer took several and wet them, then began wiping
the pilot’s face. She stirred after a moment; her eyes fluttered, then
opened.
“Made it?” she softly asked. “Made it?”
McAleer nodded. “Yes, yes,” he said kindly and slowly, so she would
understand. “You made it. You’re safe on Henderson. We’ll help you.”
The woman sighed something — whether acknowledgement or relief or