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

"Three or four miles, Doc, at a loose guess."
"Remember that great mess of 'em fifty or sixty miles south of here? Shows on
Ed's map. We must be—mm—seventy miles from the smallest of the two
oceans—oh, let's call it the Atlantic, huh? And the other one the East Atlantic?
Anyway the ocean's beyond that range of hills we saw on the way down."
"I saw campfires in the meadow," Dorothy said. "Things running."
"I thought so too… Paul, I wonder if Sears can do any testing of the air from the
lifeboat? Some of the equipment couldn't be transferred from Argo. And—how
could they communicate with us? They'll have to breathe it soon in any case."
Paul checked a shuddering yawn. "I must have been thinking in terms of Argo,
which is—history… You know, I believe the artificial gravity was stronger than we
thought? I feel light, not heavy."
"High oxygen?" Dorothy suggested. "Hot, too."
"Eighty-plus. Crash suits can't do us any more good." They struggled out of them
in the cramped space, down to faded jackets and shorts.
Wright brooded on it, pinching his throat. "Only advantage in the others' staying
sealed up a while is that if we get sick, they'll get sick a bit later. Could be some
advantage. Paul—think we should try to reach them this evening?"
"Three quarters of a mile, dark coming on—no. But so far as I'm concerned, Doc,
you're boss of this expedition. In the ship, Ed had to be—matter of engineering
knowledge. No longer applies. I wanted to say that."
Wright turned away. "Dorothy?"
She said warmly, "Yes. You."
"I—oh, my dear, I don't know that it's—best." Fretfully he added: "Shouldn't
need a leader. Only six of us—agreement—"
Dorothy held her voice to lightness: "I can even disagree with myself. Sears will
want you to take over. Ann too, probably."
His gray head sank in his hands. "As for that," he said, "inside of me I'm apt to be
a committee of fifteen." Paul thought: But he's not old! Fifty-two. When did he turn
gray, and we never noticing it…? "For now," Wright said, "let's not be official
about it, huh? What if my dreams for Lucifer are—not shared?"
"Dreams are never quite shared," Dorothy said. "I want you to lead us."
Wright whispered with difficulty, "I will try."
Dorothy continued: "Ed may want things black and white. Not Ann, I think—she
hates discussions, being obliged to make up her mind. You're elected, soldier… Can
you open the door, Paul?"
It jammed in the spoiled frame after opening enough for a tight exit. Wright
stared into evening. "Not the leader kind. Academic." His white hands moved in
doubtful protest. "Hate snap decisions—we'll be forced to make a lot of them."
Paul said, "They're best made by one who hates making them."
The lean face became gentle. "Taught you that myself, didn't I, son…?
Well—inventory. What've we got, right here?"
"Thirty days' rations for three, packed eleven years ago. Two automatic rifles,
one shotgun, three automatic pistols, three hundred rounds for each weapon.
Should have transferred more from the ship, but—we didn't. Three four-inch
hunting knives, very good—"
"They at least won't give out. With care."
"Right. Two sealed cases of garden seeds—anybody's guess about them. Six sets
of overalls, shorts, and jackets. Three pairs of shoes apiece—the Federation allowed
that you and Ann might grow a little, Dot—plasta soles and uppers, should last