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

As soon as he got a good look at the window he realized he had made a mistake. Although there were
no shutters on the outside, he had underestimated the thickness of the wall; thirty centimeters in, hidden
by the shadows and virtually invisible in the faint light, was a casement One of his knees was actually
touching it

He cursed silently.

"Query: Report status."

"I'm trying to break into the main government building through an upper-story window. Shut up and let
me concentrate."

"Termination of communications contact between ship and cyborg unit imminent"

"Fine. Look, I'm busy; I can handle this without you. Let me know when you're back in range."

"Affirmative."

Without intending to, Slant waited for some sign that the computer really was out of range below the
horizon and that he was out of radio contact with it for the first time in years. No such sign came; most of
the equipment in his head and body had its own self-regulating mechanisms and was supposed to be able
to run for days, coasting, without the computer's control.

When several seconds of dead silence, both mental and physical, had passed, he roused himself, telling
himself that he was stupid to expect something to change just because his ship was gone. Still keeping his
right hand firmly on his climbing line, he leaned forward as far as he could and felt the casement with his
unencumbered left hand. The motion twisted his shoulders so that the barrel of the submachine gun
clanked noisily against the stone wall; he froze but detected no activity, no evidence that anyone had
heard.
Very much annoyed at his carelessness, he continued his investigation of the window.

It was simple enough; a wooden frame holding many small panes of glass, leaded together. Naturally,
there was no la^ch on the outside, but he found the hinges on the right side, ordinary hinges, each with a
pin holding two flanges together. If he could work the pins free, he could open the window.
Unfortunately, he had no way of removing the pins; he hadn't thought to bring any small tools. He tried
pulling one up with his fingers but with no success. He couldn't remove his gloves without letting go of the
support line, and he couldn't get a good grip through the slick plastic; besides, it felt as if the phis had
rusted in place.

Frustration swelled up in his chest; he found it impossible to believe that after risking his neck getting this
far he was being daunted by a pair of rusty hinges. He drew his fist back, seriously considering simply
smashing in the glass and forgetting any attempt at stealth.

He caught himself, stopped and unclenched his fist. He might yet resort to that, he told himself, but first he
should consider every other possibility. There appeared to be no way to open the window with just his
hand; the simple experiment of tugging at the wooden frame as best he could demonstrated that it was
securely latched, and he was unable to work the hinges apart—at least, he was unable to do it in his
current position. He could climb back up on the rooftop, remove his gloves, then climb back down and
try again, but that idea did not appeal to him at all. He didn't care for climbing, and there was no
assurance he could pull the hinge pins even with his gloves off.