"Modesitt, L E - Forever Hero 03 - The Endless Twilight" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

Gerswin wondered if he were being overdramatic. At the same time, when grantees didn't collect hard currency drafts, even at bayonet point, there was a reason, and the reason wasn't normally friendly. Still, he needed to get on the ground in one piece, and he wanted to find out if Hylerion had succeeded with those special trees.

Caution could be discarded later, if he had been overcautious. It was difficult to reclaim after the fact.

"Contact Byzania control. Arrange for landing rights and touchdown at Illyam shuttle port. Use code red three ID package."

"Contact is in progress," the console announced.

The control area went silent. Gerswin wouldn't have to say a word unless Byzania control and the AI came to some sort of impasse, which was unlikely. A private yacht meant hard currency, and Byzania needed whatever it could get.

In the interim, he went back to studying background information on the system, attempting to get a better slant on why such a largely agricultural planet had adopted such a strong military presence.

The climate on the two main continents was nearly ideal for synde bean production, and other easily produced foodstuffs. What land areas weren't under cultivation supported wide local forests, generally softwood akin to primitive earth-descended deciduous trees.

Some scientists had theorized that the lack of a large moon and/or light comet activity during Byzania's formative period plus the larger proportion of light elements were responsible for the low mountain ranges and slow crustal action, as well as for a general lack of easily reachable heavy ore deposits. For whatever reason, it was cheaper to mine the largely nickel-steel and other metallic deposits on the fourth planet's irregular asteroidal satellites than to sink deep mines on Byzania itself.

"Clearance obtained," announced the Al, breaking into Gerswin's study. "Anticipate arriving descent orbit in one plus point four. Our name is Breakerton."

"Acknowledged," growled Gerswin, returning his attention to the information before him. He couldn't afford to use the deep-learn technique, to have all the information he needed poured into his brain through direct input—not if he wanted to remain sane long enough to finish his self-appointed mission for Old Earth. Deep learn systematically used up brain cells, which wasn't a problem, given the millions available, if you expected to live a century or two only. Gerswin expected he would need all of his brain cells healthy for much longer. He might be disappointed—bitterly so—but it was a risk he chose not to take.

At least, when he scanned something, he could choose what he wanted to concentrate on and what he wanted to retain. While it gave him a short-term headache, he hoped it would lengthen his productive years.

"Better than a head full of useless data," he muttered as he turned to the cultural background.

"Input imprecise," noted the AI.

Gerswin ignored the comment. He had little more than a standard hour before he should be ready for touchdown.

V

GERSWIN CHECKED THE public fax listing for Illyam, keying in on all names beginning with "Hy."

"Hyler, H'ten Ker . . . "

"Hylert, Georges Kyl . . . "

"Hylon, Adrin Yvor. . ."

There was no listing for Jaime Hylerion. Either the missing biochemist lived elsewhere on Byzania, which was possible, but unlikely, since the Illyam listings held most of the planet's professionals, or he had emigrated, which was theoretically possible, but highly unlikely.

He sighed, and put the small screen console provided by the Hotel D'Armand on hold.

Glancing around the room, from the faded heavy gray, crimsonedged draperies that bordered the rectangular window overlooking the courtyard to the dull brown finish of the four-postered formal bed that looked uncomfortable rather than antique to the replica of some ancient writing desk that was too small to sit at, Gerswin felt cramped. More cramped than before the Caroljoy's controls. More cramped than in the tightest flitter cockpit.

He stood up and moved away from the desk, stretching.

From the landing at the shuttle port onward, everyone had been so polite.

"Yes, Ser Corson."