"Brian Plante - The Astronaut" - читать интересную книгу автора (Plante Brian)

was a geeky thing to do, but it kept me busy.
 Mrs. Horton was right about spaceships not needing pilots, and when I
investigated the Space Agency’s public information database, I learned that the crew
of the Romulus, typical of the previous two Mars missions, included one geologist,
one biochemist, and two flight engineers. The engineers were basically mechanics, to
insure that the equipment worked for the duration of the two-year mission.
I wasn’t particularly good at biology or interested in rocks, so if I was going
to become an astronaut, it would probably have to be as a flight engineer. It didn’t
sound nearly as exciting as “pilot,” but I was good with my hands, so it looked like I
was going to be studying engineering, like my dad. And apparently, like my
next-door neighbor.
Since school hadn’t started, I still hadn’t made any friends in the
neighborhood yet. Hardly anybody went outdoors in the summer heat, so I just
didn’t have any opportunity to meet anyone. As a result, Mrs. Horton became the
sole relief from my monotonous life. I started mowing more often than once a week,
and doing maintenance on her mower—cleaning it, sharpening the blades, changing
the oil, plugs, and filters—just so I could see her again and share an iced tea more
often. I was smitten with her.
The rest of the week, when I wasn’t watching the Mars Channel, I spent a lot
of time peeking out of my window, hoping to catch a glimpse of her coming and
going. I rarely saw her outside the house except for mowing days, and I never saw
any visitors show up at her doorstep, so maybe she was lonely, too, what with her
husband away so long.
One morning, while I was sleeping in, I was awakened by a phone call from
Mrs. Horton.
“Davy, I need you to do a big favor for me,” she said. Her voice sounded a
bit shaky on the other end of the phone. “I got called away unexpectedly, and I need
someone to look after the house for a few days.”
“Sure, Mrs. Horton, anything you want.”
I would have painted the house if she’d asked me.
“I have a house key hidden on the patio in back,” she said. “There’s a big
geranium pot on the far end, and the key is underneath it.”
She was trusting me a lot. I felt proud of that. “What do you want me to do?”
I asked.
“Could you please take in the mail and make sure the water’s not running?
Maybe turn the air conditioning down a little—the thermostat is on the wall between
the kitchen and the stairs. Oh, and water the houseplants in the breakfast nook and
the foyer.”
“Okay,” I said. “Is there anything more I can do? Is everything all right?”
 “There’s been a little problem,” she said. “But I don’t think it’s too serious,
now. I should be back in a few days. I’m sorry to hit you with this at the last minute,
but I know I can count on you.”
That made me feel proud. She was thinking of me as a friend, not just the kid
next door. I wondered what sort of situation could have called her away. A medical
emergency? A death in the family? But I didn’t want to pry.
“Thanks, Mrs. Horton,” I said. “I’m glad you’re my friend.”
“You’re a good boy, Davy,” she said, and hung up the phone.
Ouch, she still thought of me as a boy. But I still loved her. I would always
love her.
The key was right where she said it was, under the geranium pot. I took the