"C. Sanford Lowe & G. David Nordley - The Small Pond" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lowe C Sanford)

The smell of roast meat, well seasoned and basted, wafted in a gentle breeze
from the barbecue pits along the river. Liz looked around at the fortieth celebration
of Suits-off Day. What a difference a year made! She knew most of the people;
everyone connected with something outside Minot itself along with their friends and
relatives, maybe a couple of hundred people all together.
Liz sat at a wooden table with her deputy, Cyan Mutori, Judi Lalande, and her
son Oscar—and David. The last looked incredibly primitive as he chewed on an emu
rib.
Roger Gunheim strode up a small hill near the tables in full outback
regalia—safari shirt, walking shorts, and a wide-brim hat with one brim buttoned to
its crown. He lifted a ridiculously large Bavarian-style mug of local brew and
shouted, “To the success of all our projects!” Then he flipped the cap back and
chugged.
Liz laughed, lifted her much smaller glass of Lenore stout, and took a sip. The
reflection of Campbell, as much a heat lamp as a light, warmed her skin.
As BHP director, her project for the last year had been to supervise some
twenty people scattered around various asteroids and to make key architecture
decisions for their busy but not-all-that-creative robot laborers. The fabrication of
the impactor was ahead of schedule, and the combined power/beam modules were
on a schedule that had at least some margin. They’d become like a family—all
dedicated to accomplishing the greatest human project since terraforming Mars.
With one exception.
“Gotta lid on Terry Peal?”Judi asked.
Liz laughed. That particular exception was more interested in setting robot
armies one against the other than in mining. He’d also been spouting anti-project
propaganda to anyone who’d listen. “He’s been eased aside, and others have taken
up the slack. We’re on schedule.”
Here comes da boss, Judi warned.
“G’day, mind if I join you?”
Liz looked up at Gunheim. “You shot this?” gesturing at her roast kangaroo.
“With a cross bow. A fair shot and it was near the end of its natural life span,”
Gunheim told her.
Oscar looked confused and moved closer to his mother.
David tossed his head. “When deer become old and feeble, they hurt a lot.
That is where hunters come in and end suffering. It is either hunters or wolves, I
think.”
“Oh,” Oscar said, with a furtive glance at Gunheim.
“You have wolves here?” Liz asked.
Judi looked at Liz. With Gunheim’s kind around, you don’t need wolves.
Liz frowned. As far as she could see, Gunheim was all glad-handing and
bluster; a little shallow, but harmless.
“Dingoes, it would be. But we haven’t introduced large predators yet, mate,
and may not for a while. The grass contains a weak contraceptive, so the herds grow
more slowly,” Gunheim said. “Well, I didn’t come over here to talk about hunting.
Liz, we’re a kind of family around here.”
 “Great to be part of it,” Liz said, feeling all warm and relaxed with the stout. A
splash from the shore caught her attention; shorts and halters littered the riverbank
beach and shouts of laughter and splashes beckoned her. She’d worn a red towel
kilt and matching halter and was beginning to feel overdressed.
Gunheim nodded and beamed, but his eyes were sharp. “Well, in families one