"L. Neil Smith - Forge of the Elders" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith L. Neil)

Instead of looking up, as might be expected, into the starry depths of space (Gutierrez was preparing a
hasty getaway and a view of the major's real destination, a kilometer aft, was blocked by the bulk of the
passenger insert, the cowled OMS pods, and the tail assembly of the shuttle), Reille y Sanchez peered
back through the thick transparency at her companions, soon to follow, she hoped, despite a mixture of
less than enthusiastic expressions—nervousness, anxiety, uneuphemized terror—on their lens-distorted
features. She wondered how her features looked to them.

Again before she knew it, this being a calculated result of countless Earthside simulations and endless
drilling afterward in space, which had taught her body what to do while rendering it independent (in these
matters, at least) of her mind, she'd observed the second ready-light, opened the overhead hatch, and
was outside the free-falling craft with the lock dogged shut behind her. Nylon tether clipped in place and
space-gloved fingers laced into one of several handholds at the rear of the flight deck, she waited for the
rest of her team to emerge. Through paired windows high in the after bulkhead, she could discern
human-shaped silhouettes. Too much yellow glare interfered to make out whose they were.

The air lock hatch swung open. First came Kamanov, his tanned, handsome face framed in his helmet,
his grin belying not only the birthdate in his dossier (the geologist would turn seventy before his feet
touched the Earth again), but the silver of his beard, mustache, and thick, unruly hair. Nor was the major
ever altogether unaware of the Russian's broad shoulders and flat stomach, even concealed beneath the
unflattering bulk of his suit. Clipping his tether to a ringbolt, he pivoted in "midair" and dogged the hatch.
With a gentle kick at the stubby cylinder of the lock, he floated up beside her, giving her a friendly pat on
the arm before turning his attention back where he'd come from.

This expedition, the major thought, represented a triumph of some kind for senior citizenry. After
Kamanov came Colonel Vivian Richardson, the seams in her black face softened by reflections in her
visor, just as the salt-and-pepper of her close-cropped hair was hidden by her cap. Expedition
second-in-command and captain of theHatch , she was also Gutierrez's emotional surrogate, since he
wouldn't be obeying his strong personal inclination to accompany them on the initial EVA. Displaying
none of Kamanov's athletic grace, Richardson closed the hatch (she'd often wished that someone had
chosen a different name for the expedition's second vessel) and joined them aft of the flight deck, well out
of the way of the air lock.

As they waited, the major squinted against what seemed to her a blinding glare. It was less actual light,
she'd been informed, than a moonlit night back on Earth. At theDole 's stern, the inexplicably featureless
surface of a miniature planet shone like a golden apple in the sun. Training for this expedition, no one had
been able to tell her why the astronomers had taken so long discovering 5023 Eris, bright as it was
compared to most bodies like it, nor why it displayed this particular shade of yellow. The odd color had
drawn them, that and a spectrographic signature rich in hydrocarbons, lifestuff which promised to make
establishing themselves here possible. Observations made closer at hand every day told them the hue was
that of the same residual minerals which lent color to the fallen leaves of autumn. Yet the answer, once
they had it, only generated more questions, and they were a people for whom it had become
difficult—because they'd been taught the hard way—to ask and answer questions.

The expedition's political officer, Arthur Empleado, was the last to squeeze out through the lock, his
sweat-beaded scalp glistening through his thinning hair. To the major, he looked incomplete, somehow,
insecure without the complement of "associates" who normally followed him everywhere, an oddly
assorted lot of, well . . ."thugs" wasn't quite the right word. He looked uncomfortable without them, even
through the vacuum suit he was bundled up in. Like Kamanov he was a civilian, rare among the crew.
Short-winded and overweight like most of his professional brethren, he had nothing else in common with