"S. M. Stirling - Draka 04 - Drakon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stirling S. M)

rose from one mountain valley; probably goblins. Gwen grimaced. Loathsome little things. One of the
Conservation Directorate's mistakes, in her opinion—although they did make good, tricky game. The
Adirondacks flashed by, spruce and white pine broken only by the blue eyes of lakes.

A scattering of manors marked the Hudson valley, but nobody had ever bothered to resettle Long
Island or Manhattan. Thus it was free for Technical Directorate use. Beyond, the Atlantic stretched silver
and immense.

"Query," the aircraft said. "Security query from Reichart Station . . . Confirmed access."

Just as well, since the orbital weapons platforms would be tracking her. Back to work.

***

Reichart Station's surface was a village set in parkland, amid oak and maple forest growing over
what closer inspection would show to be ruins. Here and there a giant stub of crumbled building showed,
what had survived the airblasts and half a millennium of weather and roots. Several hundred acres were
surrounded by the inconspicuous fence-rods of a sonic barrier to keep animals and wild sapients out.
Tile-roofed cottages stood among gardens, around a few larger buildings in the same whitewashed style;
lawns and brick paths linked them, centered on a square with an ornamental pond. The settlement was
three and a half centuries old, at first a biohazards research institute, later branching into physics. Tied into
the Web, there wasn't much need for extensive physical plant, and what there was could be put
underground, A heavy power receptor showed in the distance, new construction; superconducting cable
would be run underground to the centrum.

The whole population was turned out to greet her, nearly a thousand all told. A visit from a
drakensis in person would be rare here, entry being restricted. A bow like a ripple went over them as she
stepped down from the aircraft.

Gwen's nostrils flared slightly, taking their scent. Clean, slightly salty, seasoned with curiosity,
excitement, awe, a touch of fear, a complex hormonal stew that signaled submission. The scent of Homo
servus, comforting and pleasant; it brought a warm pleasurable feeling, a desire to protect and guide.

Their type was more diverse in looks than her own, closer to the ancestral Homo sapiens
sapiens; this particular group tended to light-brown skins and fair hair, and a height about half a head below
her hundred and seventy-six centimeters. There were children among the crowd. Reichart Station would be
a community of its own, with its own customs and folkways, by now. The group standing to meet her were
middle-aged or older, although they showed few signs of it; they'd been designed to remain vigorous into
their ninth or tenth decade before a brief senescence and an easy death.

"Greetings," Gwen said.

"We live to serve," they replied.

The awe-fear scent grew stronger as they reacted to the subliminal stimulus of her pheromones.
She throttled back consciously. No sense in spooking them—the long wilderness vacation had made her a
little sloppy.

"I'm Glenr Hoben," the servus said. "Administrator. This is Tolya Mkenni, my lifepartner and head
of research on the Project." She could hear the capitalization on the name.