"Edgar Pangborn- West of the Sun" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pangborn Edgar)

mass was used to correct a deflection. Same allowance must be made in returning,
not to mention the biggest drain of all—getting out of gravity here, a problem not
present at the spaceport. Oh, it's planned for—she's built to do it, even from a
heavier planet than this. But after she's done it the margin for return will
be—narrower than I care to think."
Dorothy, small and soft, leaned back in Paul's arms. Her even voice was for
everyone in the control room: "Nevertheless we'll go down."
Spearman gazed across at her without apparent comprehension. He went on,
deliberate, harassed: "Here's a thing I never told you. In that accidental
acceleration the ship did not respond normally: the deflection happened then, and
it may have been due to a defect in the building of Argo, a fault in the tail jets. At
the time, it was all I could do to reach Jensen before I blacked out—I still don't
know how I ever managed it. Later I tried to think there could be no defect. The
forward jets took care of us nicely in deceleration. Until we start braking, we can't
know. Indicators say everything's all right down there. Instruments can lie. Lord,
they've sweated out atomic motors since before 1960, almost a century now—and
we're still kids playing with grown-up toys."
Sears smiled into plump hands. "So I must be sure to pack my microscope in one
of the lifeboats—hey?"
"You're for landing, then."
 Sears nodded. Ann Bryan thrust thin ivory fingers into her loose black hair. "I
couldn't take another eleven years." She attempted a smile. "Tell me,
somebody—tell me there'll be music on Lucifer—a way to make new strings for my
violin before I forget everything…"
Dorothy said, "Land." Gently, as one might say time for lunch. And she added:
"Well find strings, Nan."
"Land, of course," said Christopher Wright, preoccupied; his long finger tapped
on the photograph; his lips went on moving silently, carrying through some private
meditation. "Land. Give protoplasm a chance."
"Land," Paul Mason said. Did anyone suppose the First Interstellar would just
turn around and go home? We're here, aren't we…?
Through hours when spoken words were few, inner words riotous, Lucifer turned
an evening face. A morning descent might have been pleasanter in human terms,
but the calculator, churning its mathematical brew, said the time was now.
Paul Mason squirmed into his pilot's seat. It was good, he thought, that they
could at least meet the challenge of the unexplored with adequate bodies. Wright
was dryly indestructible; Ed Spearman a gaunt monolith; the plumpness of Sears
Oliphant had nothing flabby. The women were in the warm vigor of a youth that
had never known illness. As for his own body, Paul felt for it now a twinge of
amused admiration, as if he were seeing an animated statue by an artist better than
himself: slender, tough, nothing too much, built for endurance and speed—it would
serve. Spearman was already talking in the earphones: "Close lock. Retract shield."
Paul responded from ingrained training. Beyond the window that would give him
forward vision in the (impossible) event he had to fly the lifeboat, the heavens
opened. Withdrawal of the shield into the belly of the mother ship Argo was a
dream motion within a wider dream. Dorothy and Wright were strapped in the two
seats behind him: half of Argo's human treasure was here. "Go over what you do if
you have to drive off. Over."
"Lever for release. No action till wing-lock indicator is green. No jet unless to
correct position. In atmosphere handle as glider, jet only in emergency. Over." After