"04 - Mirror of Ice by Gary Wright" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nebula Awards)

And Franz told him, "Up there I see nobody! Only sleds!
Down here you are you, up there you are nothing but another
sled. That's all! And don't forget that! That's all! And don't
forget that!"
. . . and it had to be that way. On the course sleds crashed
and were no more. . . . Only later, in the valley, were there
men missing.
Of these sixteen, chances were that nine would finish. With
luck, maybe ten. And chances also said that only fourteen of
these men would be alive tonight. Those were the odds, as
hard and cold as the ice, the fascinating frosting for this sport.
Violent death! Assured, spectacular, magnetic death in a sport
such as the world Jiad never known. Incredible men with in-
credible skills doing an incredible thing.
Back in the Sixties they claimed an empty sled with its
steering locked would make a course all by itself. An empty
sled here would not last two corners. The Stuka was a cold
killer, not a thrill ride. And it was not particular. It killed
veterans and novices alike. But there was $20,000 for the man
who got to the end of it first, and a whole month before he
had to do it again. Money and fame and all the girls in the
world. Everything and anything for the men who rode the
Stuka.
Was that why they did it?
. . . yes, always that question: "Why do you do it?" And
before he had died on the Plummet, Sir Robert Brooke had
told them, "Well, why not?"
And it was an answer as good as any.
But was it good enough this time?
No answer.
He only knew there was but one way off this mountain for
him now and that was straight ahead, and for the first time
since his novice runs, his legs were trembling. Twelve and a
half miles, call it, and the record was 9 minutes, 1.14 seconds!
An average speed of 82.67 mph, and that was his record.
They would at least remember him by that!
His countdown light flashed, a green rocket rose and burst,
and there was a frozen moment . . . the quiet click of the
release hook, the lazy, slow-motion start, the sleds sliding for-
ward in formation over the edge . . . then he was looking once
again into the terrible top of the Stukathat 45-degree,
quarter-mile straight drop. In six seconds he was doing over
60 mph, and the mouth of the first corner was reaching up.
. . . Carl's Corner, for Carl Rasch, who -went over the top
of it nine years ago; and they found him a half-mile down the
glacier . . . what was left of him . . .
He glanced to his right. It was clear. He eased his flap
brakes, dropped back slightly and pulled right. The leading
sleds were jockeying in front now, lining for this long left.
Brakes flapped like quick wings, and they started around,