"Lawrence Watt-Evans - War Surplus 01 - The Cyborg And The Sorcerers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

Ahead of him he made out a pale, looming dome; he could not be sure it was actually white, but it
appeared to be, and he was fairly sure it must be the dome of the Council palace. The plaza before the
palace would be a perfect landing spot, wide and level, and at this late hour he doubted even so public a
place carried much risk of his being spotted. He steered toward it.

Unfortunately, he had more altitude than he had realized, and even in his efficient military persona he was
out of prac-time in guiding a glider-chute, particularly in an environment with slightly less than terrestrial
gravity. He passed neatly over the plaza, and before he could loop back he was descending on the roof
of the palace itself. He had no choice but to make the best of it, and managed a passable landing just to
the right of the dome, on a flat expanse of tile.

Still acting on programmed reflex, he stood, scanned for enemies, and seeing none hauled in his 'chute,
then detached it and bundled it under one arm. That was as far as his conditioning carried him; his normal
emotions slipped back, and his knees felt weak as he realized he had just survived a fifteen-kilometer fall,
supported only by a couple of kilograms of nylon. He looked about, considering what to do next.

His immediate goal was to get off the roof; he was no good to anyone up there. He saw no sign of any
door, hatch, trap, skylight, airshaft, vent, or other opening; he moved carefully around the dome, but
there was no entry to be had anywhere.

Cautiously he approached the edge of the roof and peered over at the street that ran behind the building,
a narrow lane displaying no sign of life at all, not so much as a foraging rat If he could lower himself over
the edge with the lines from his parachute, he could drop down into that alley without any undue fuss and
proceed from there; he looked about for some means of anchoring the 'chute to the rooftop.
A narrow metal chimney stuck up near the edge of the dome; Slant unfolded the mass of nylon under his
arm and hooked the approximate center of the 'chute around the protruding pipe. The shrouds were
hopelessly tangled; rather than try to separate them he twisted them together further, so that they served
as a single thick rope. He lowered this makeshift rope over the edge of the roof.

It didn't reach anywhere near as far as he would have liked, but he thought it would do; he took a final
look around to make sure he hadn't missed a trap door in the darkness, then slid backward over the
eaves, his ankles wrapped around the tangled lines and his hands gripping them firmly—but not too
tightly, as that could be dangerous.

Cautiously he worked his way down the rope until he was below the narrow overhang of the eaves; then
he unwrapped his legs and swung them forward, planting his feet on the side of the palace, so that he
wouldn't sway from side to side. Thus stabilized, he took a moment to look about.

The street was still distressingly distant; the palace was at least three, perhaps four stories high, and he
had had to hook his 'chute well back from the edge, so that he had less than two meters of line left. That
meant an uncomfortably long drop.

He noticed, however, that his left foot was just a few centimeters from a window, and that he saw no sign
of shutters or any other serious barrier.

This was too good an opportunity to miss; he pushed himself sideways and hooked his foot on the
window frame, then slid himself down and over until he was perched on the sill, one hand still clutching
the shrouds to steady him as he studied the situation.