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

both, McAleer couldn’t tell. Her eyes closed again; her body relaxed as she
drifted off.
 “You’re driving, Zweebl,” McAleer said as he settled himself in the back.
He wet some more of the tissues with what was left in the canteen and
began wiping the woman’s face again; she didn’t stir at the touch of the
cool water, nor did the sound of Zweebl starting the turbines seem to
disturb her.
“Hey!” Klatho squealed above the roar. “When I going to get canteen
back, huh?”
“Soon,” McAleer answered calmly.
“Hell with that,” Klatho retorted. “Want it back now.”
“Drive, Zweebl,” McAleer said firmly, and they were off, with Klatho
squeaking odd, unheard curses behind them.
It was Sabbath night now. McAleer was spending it comfortably enough
in the visitors’ chair in his study; the pilot — DANEY, EDITH MANUS,
according to her necktags — was sleeping in his room. She had roused
several times, but only briefly, since McAleer and Zweebl had gotten her
back to the residence. A more careful scan by McAleer upon their return
had shown that Edith had suffered no concussion or other head injury; he
judged that she was simply exhausted.
McAleer and Zweebl had spent most of an evil hour getting the rest of
her spacesuit off, an hour during which Edith roused only once. McAleer
had taken on the job of taking out Edith’s urinary catheter and dumping
the honey bag; he noticed some evidence of irritation and applied the
appropriate medication. With Zweebl’s assistance, McAleer also gave
Edith a washrag bath, which she sorely needed; the priest estimated she’d
been in the suit for a week, perhaps longer. He’d also had to treat an
outbreak of severe dermatitis on Edith’s back, buttocks and limbs. Edith’s
suit, which stank abominably of sweat and waste, was airing out in the
mission courtyard.
McAleer was awakened by a sound from his bedroom door. The handle
rattled as it was opened. “Hello?” came a voice.
McAleer rose. “Hello there, Miss Daney. Please come in.” He waved the
study lights on.
Edith Daney entered the room, clad in a pair of McAleer’s pajamas.
They fit poorly; Edith stood a foot shorter than McAleer and was
compactly built. Her face was still swollen with sleep; her close-cropped
black hair was sticking up in spikes randomly.
Nevertheless, when she smiled at McAleer, she glowed. “I really don’t
know where I am,” she said. “On Henderson, I hope.”
 McAleer smiled back. “Yes, you are. I’m Mort McAleer. You’re at St.
Polycarp’s mission. We’re on the outskirts of the town closest to the field.”
“You picked me up?” Edith asked. “How’s my ship?”
“I’m afraid it’s a dead loss.”
Edith sighed, frowning. “Poor old girl. I hope she didn’t hurt much. Um,
I’m afraid I don’t remember anything about the landing.”
“It was good enough. You’re here, after all.”
Edith smiled slightly. “I guess it was. Thanks for taking care of me, Mr.
McAleer.”
“No thanks necessary. Glad to help. How are you feeling?”