"James Tiptree Jr -- Happiness is a Warm Spaceship" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tiptree James Jr)

Then he took a deep breath, opened his dittybox and rooted through a bundle of manuals.
Selecting one, he pushed out through the sphincter and climbed up to the bridge.
In the command chair the ursine Captain Imray was flipping fuel selectors and grunting
into the engineroom speaker. Quent looked around the small bridge. The navigator’s console
and the computer station were empty. A little old man in a flowered shirt sat in the commo
cubby. He glanced around and batted one baggy eye at Quent, without ceasing to whisper into
his set. He had a gray goatee and yellow buck teeth.
The first officer’s chair was beside the shaft ladder. Quent removed a parcel from the seat,
sat down and opened his manual. When the captain ceased grunting Quent cleared his throat.
“Shall I take over the check, sir? I gather you are going through phase twenty-six.”
The ursinoid’s eyes widened.
“Some help I get,” he boomed. “Sure, sure, you take.”
Quent activated his console.
“Gyro lateral thrust, on,” he said, manipulating the auxiliary. There was no reply from
Engines.
“Gyro lateral thrust, on,” Quent repeated, thumbing the engineroom channel.
“Morgan don’t say much,” remarked Captain Imray.
“The engineering officer?” asked Quent. “But—but you mean he would respond if the
function were negative, sir?”
“Sure, sure,” said Imray.
“Gyro torque amplifiers, on,” said Quent. Silence. “Primary impellor circuit, live,” he
continued grimly and worked on down the check. At: “Pod eject compensator—” a brief moan
came from Engines.
“What?”
“Morgan says don’t bother him, he done all that,” Imray translated.
Quent opened his mouth. The main voder suddenly began barking.
“Control to peebee Rosy! Pee bee Rosy, prepare to clear dock at this time. Repeat,
peebee Rosy to station north, go! Peebee Kip four-ten, repeat, four-ten. Control to peebee Kip,
dock eight-two now clearing. Repeat, peebee Kip green for dock eight-two.”
“Morgan, you hear?” boomed Imray. “We green for go, Morgan?”
A faint squeal from Engines.
“But Captain, we’re only at check-phase thirty,” said Quent and ducked as Lieutenant Sylla
hurtled out of the shaft to land in the navigation console with a rattle of claws. Sylla slapped
the screens to life with one hand while punching course settings with the other. Imray and the
commo gnome were yanking at their webs. From below came the clang and hiss of the
disengaging lock, and the next instant the station gravity went off.
As Quent pawed for his own web he heard Imray bellowing something. The auxiliaries let
in and the Ethel P. Rosenkrantz leaped to station north.
Quent hauled himself down to his chair, trying to orient the wheeling constellations on
the screens.
“How’s she look, Morgan?” Imray was asking. “Green we go out?”
Another hoot came from Engines. Sylla was smacking course settings with one furry fist.
“Svensk! Appleby! You set?” Imray bawled.
“But Captain—” Quent protested.
Sylla kicked the fix pedal, twiddled his calibrator and dropped the fist.
“Gesprüch!” roared Imray and slammed home the main drive.
Quent’s head cleared. He was crosswise in his seat.
“With no web is risky, son,” said Imray, shaking his jowls.
“We weren’t due to go for forty-five minutes!” expostulated Quent. He righted himself as
acceleration faded. “The check is incomplete, sir. Control had no right—”