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

“Apparently the first officer did not hear the four-ten,” said Sylla silkily.
“Four-ten?”
“Four-ten is ship in bad trouble, must dock quick,” Imray told him.
“But that should be three-three-delta-ex-four-one-otto point with the vessel’s
designation.”
“Doubtless in the star class vessels First Officer Quent is used to,” said Sylla. “Here he will
find life less formal.”
“What was the four-ten, Pom?” called a clear, sweet voice.
Quent twisted. Looking up from beside his elbow was a dazzling girl-face framed in
copper curls. Quent craned further. The rest of her appeared to meet the wildest demands of a
man who had spent the last year on a training ship.
“Huh?” he asked involuntarily.
“Hi,” said the apparition, waving her hand irritably in front of Quent’s nose and continuing
to gaze at the commo officer.
“The Kip,” said the little man over his shoulder. “That’s the pee- bee Kipsuga Chomo, sir,” he
waggled his goatee at Quent. “Three hundred hours with some contaminant gas. They sealed up
in the bridge but Ikky had to bring ’em in by himself. Not much air in these here peebees.”
He turned back to his board.
Quent glanced around. Three hundred hours was over two weeks. He shuddered.
“But why didn’t—”
“Why did not someone come to their rescue?” Sylla cut in. “The first officer forgets. Patrol
boats are the ones that go to the rescue. Who comes to aid a patrol boat? Only another patrol
boat—in this case ourselves, who were sitting at Central awaiting our new first officer. Tant
pis, they were only a gaggle of Non-Humans—”
Imray swatted the air crossly.
“Now, now, Syll.”
“Soup’s hot,” said the girl. “Ooh! My jam.”
She reached a slim white arm around Quent’s ankles. Quent tracking closely, saw that the
parcel he had displaced had collided with the gimbals—together with his hat—and was
exuding a rosy goo.
“Tchah!” She snatched it up and departed down the shaft.
Quent picked up his hat and shook it. Jam drops drifted onto his leg.
Captain Imray was clambering into the shaftway.
“The first officer will take the first watch, is that not correct?”
Without waiting for an answer Sylla sailed past the captain and vanished. Only the commo
officer remained absorbed in his inaudible dialog.
Quent collected the floating jam in his handkerchief and wedged the cloth under his seat.
Then he kicked off on a tour of the cramped bridge. The screens were, he saw, inoperative
under drive. He pulled up to the library computer and signaled for their course data display.
Instead of the requested data the voder came on.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call—
Quent reached for the erase.
“Don’t do that, sir,” the commo man said.
“Why not? I want some data.”
“Yes, sir. But that’s Lieutenant Sylla’s setup, sir. Very fond of water poetry, he is. Just leave
it, sir, Lieutenant Svensk will get whatever you want.”
Quent glared at the computer, which was now reciting:
Degged with dew, dappled with dew,
Are the groins of the braes—