"Eric Frank Russell - Hobbyist" - читать интересную книгу автора (Russell Eric Frank)

old boots. Or unless some dopey search party was intelligent enough to pick this
cosmic dust mote out of a cloud of motes, and took him back. He estimated this as
no less than a millionto-one chance. Like spitting at the Empire State hoping to hit a
centsized mark on one of its walls.
Reaching for his everflo stylus and the ship's log, he opened the log, looked
absently at some of the entries.
"Eighteenth day: The spatial convulsion has now flung me past rotalrange of
Rigel. Am being tossed into uncharted regions.
"Twentyfourth day: Arm of convulsion now tails back seven parsecs. Robot
recorder now out of gear. Angle of throw changed seven times today.
"Twentyninth day: Now beyond arm of the convulsive sweep and regaining
control. Speed far beyond range of the astrometer. Applying braking rockets
cautiously. Fuel reserve: fourteen hundred yards.
"Thirtyseventh day: Making for planetary system now within reach."
 He scowled, his jaw muscles lumped, and he wrote slowly and legibly,
"Thirtyninth day: Landed on planet unknown primary unknown, galactic area
standard reference and sector numbers unknown. No cosmic formations were
recognizable when observed shortly before landing. Angles of offshoot and speed of
transit not recorded, and impossible to estimate. Condition of ship: workable. Fuel
reserve: three and one quarter yards."
Closing the log, he scowled again, rammed the stylus into its deskgrip, and
muttered, "Now to check on the outside air and then see how the best girl's doing."
The Radson register had three simple dials. The first recorded outside pressure
at thirteen point seven pounds, a reading he observed with much satisfaction. The
second said that oxygen content was high. The third had a bicolored dial, half white,
half red, and its needle stood in the middle of the white.
"Breathable," he grunted, clipping down the register's lid. Crossing the tiny
control room, he slid aside a metal panel, looked into the padded compartment
behind. "Coming out, Beauteous?" he asked.
"Steve loves Laura?" inquired a plaintive voice.
"You bet he does!" he responded with becoming passion. He shoved an arm
into the compartment, brought out a large, gaudily colored macaw. "Does Laura love
Steve?"
"Heyhey!" cackled Laura harshly. Climbing up his arm, the bird perched on his
shoulder. He could feel the grip of its powerful claws. It regarded him with a beady
and brilliant eye, then rubbed its crimson head against his left ear. "Heyhey! Time
flies!"
"Don't mention it," he reproved. "There's plenty to remind me of the fact without
you chipping in."
Reaching up, he scratched her poll while she stretched and bowed with absurd
delight. He was fond of Laura. She was more than a pet. She was a bona fide
member of the crew, issued with her own rations and drawing her own pay. Every
probe ship had a crew of two: one man, one macaw. When he'd first heard of it, the
practice had seemed crazybut when he got the reasons, it made sense.
"Lonely men, probing beyond the edge of the charts, get queer psychological
troubles. They need an anchor to Earth. A macaw provides the necessary
companionshipand more! It's the spacehardiest bird we've got, its weight is
negligible, it can talk and amuse, it can fend for itself when necessary. On land, it will
often sense dangers before you do. Any strange fruit or food it may eat is safe for
you to eat. Many a man's life has been saved by his macaw. Look after yours, my