"Longyear,.Barry.-.Circus.World.2.-.Elephant.Song.-.Uc" - читать интересную книгу автора (Longyear Barry)In the darkness, above the atmosphere of the strange planet, ten smaller crafts detached themselves from a great ship, fired their entry burns, and fell toward the planet's surface. When the shuttles were little more than points of reflected light, the great ship seemed to wobble, then roll. For a moment the ship's movement seemed to stabilize, then its powerful engines gave a brief, blinding flash, the ship nosed over, and dived toward the planet.
A huge man with a bandaged head moaned and opened his eyes as he felt the reality around him shaking, then slamming to a devastating halt. He closed his eyes as pains that could melt steel shot through his head. Noises. The smell of acid. The smell of smoke. He drove awareness from his mind. There was so much to drive away. A dying ship, a dying show, a dying daughter— "Get these two patched up, fast! I need them back on the radios." "Are we down?" "Are we down, Mange? Hell yes we're down! Just put a dent in a goddamned mountain!" ... so much to keep away: a dying show, a dying daughter, dying itself, the bulls— He opened his eyes and stared blankly at the blur of rushing, screaming bodies. Someone had said something about the bulls— "Jesus, we're spread all over the place!" "Fire control, down to the main carrousel! Pony? Pony Red, where are you?" Unintelligible crackles, words. "Get down to the main carrousel! The bulls and horses've broken loose and are shredding the place. Fire control, where'n the hell are you? Flame in the port carrousel!" The bulls. Something about the bulls. And fire. He lifted an arm. Tingling numbness covering his body. Data began to enter the blank circuits of his mind. The bulls. Have to get to the bulls. "What about the atmospheric readings?" "Screw 'em! If the air out there's no good, it doesn't matter much, does it? With that Hartford going in the port bay we don't have enough left in here to light a match. Open the damned vents and hit the fans!" "That was some great landing, Fireball." "You try and deadstick in one of these bastards, punk! It's got the glide angle of a brick." "I said it was a good landing—" "Where'n the hell are the others?" "Try the radio, stupid—wait. What's that call?" "It... it's the Baraboo, skipper. It's out of control.... It's diving into the atmosphere.... Signal's dead." The voices. He pushed himself up from the couch and stumbled toward the voices. But now the control cabin was silent. There was a breath of fresh air on his face, and he inhaled. He gulped at the air, and gulped again. His vision cleared a bit and he could make out the shuttle crew standing like statues before the control banks. |
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