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

all, Paul considered, he had had a thousand hours of atmospheric flying, and two
years' drill on these boats. Ed could worry less and save wind. Beautiful
mechanisms in their own right, Model L-46, lying eleven years secret but alert in the
streamlined blisters, powered by charlesite to avoid the ponderous shielding still
necessary for atomic motors—and charlesite, perfected only thirty years ago in
2026, was obedient stuff. In space, the boats were small rocket ships; in
atmosphere, gliders or low-speed jet planes. While Argo had been in the long ordeal
of building, Paul had been shot from gleaming tubes like this into the atmosphere
of Earth, the blind depth at the spaceport, the desolate thin air of Mars. Spearman
said, "Turning in five minutes."
In the port lifeboat Ann and Sears would be waiting, but that lock would be
open, for Ed must be in the control room. If they had to abandon ship (ridiculous!)
Ed's boat would be many moments behind.
The stars moved. "Paul—check straps. Over."
 Paul glanced behind him. "All set. Over."
The forward jets spoke once, and softly. Spearman said, "Out of orbit. We start
braking sooner than you think. Then we'll know…"
The depth of quiet was a depth of eternity. Time to reflect—to marvel, if you
wished. One hundred and eleven years since Hiroshima, which the inveterate
insanity of history textbooks sometimes referred to as a great experiment.
Eighty-five years since the first-manned spaceport; seventy since the founding of
stations on Luna and Mars. But to Paul Mason a greater marvel was the responding
warmth of the woman, the brooding charity of the old man, whose lives were
upheld with him in this silent nothing, dependent on the magic bundle of muscle
and nerve that was himself. What is love?
The greater spaceport had been twelve years in building. Then Argo. More than
a century from early rocket experiments to the mile-long factories turning out
charlesite. In that century man had even added to his morsels of self-knowledge a
trifle more than he possessed in the days of flint ax and reeking cave. "We are in
atmosphere," said the earphones… Time: a cerebral invention? How long is a May
fly's life to a May fly…? "Braking starts in forty-five seconds. Warn the others."
Paul shoved down the mouthpiece, echoing the message. Wright said, "Six
pushed-around people. The arrogance of man! Doing fine, Paul."
Pressure—not too bad. A long roaring. But then the stars…
The stars went mad. A glare—a cruel second of the light of the star that was now
the sun and a flicker of red-green, not real. The roaring paused. Stopped.
The earphones screamed: "Release! Drive off!"
"Releasing." The amused voice was Paul's own. "Good luck, Ed."
No answer. There was still such a thing as time. Now, look: the Federation was a
grand thing, potentially, if only, as Doc insists, it weren't for the damned cultural
lag of the humanistic sciences, but there is unfortunately no TIME to turn around
and see if that little brown cowlick is over her forehead the way it—Meantime he
said aloud, "Doc, Dorothy, get ready for a big one." And his hand pulled for
release—nicely, as you might steer a road car for a turn. The pressure torment…
Finished. He looked at a friendly green eye. So the retractile wings were as good
as eleven years ago—you hoped. Atmosphere—thin, said the gauge. Never mind,
thicker soon. And down you go—
Too steep. Level off, if there's stuff to bite on. There is… Thank you, Machine
Age Man, for a sweet boat. That thing gibbering in the autonomic and voluntary
nervous systems—merely fear. Overlook it…