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

nothing; the ship was screened against every form of electronic detection its designers had known.

The hills below him were blanketed in thick forests, a deep, ominous sea of Earthlike trees—probably
imported from Old Earth when the planet was first settled and terraformed. He turned the ship and more
or less paralleled the mountains, continuing to decelerate.

A dim spot of orange light flashed by beneath, and he had the computer play back in slow motion and
high magnification the record that was automatically kept of everything detected within "enemy" systems.

The light was a campfire, with a group of fur-clad men sleeping huddled about it. Spears and swords
were in evidence; this was apparently not one of the worlds where a return to barbarism had brought
peaceful coexistence.

Even at stop-frame and maximum magnification he could make out no details that seemed significant; he
dropped the image and asked if the ship's records had any evidence indicating when the planet's
civilization was destroyed. There was nothing very helpful; the only relevant item was that the war fleet
targeted for this system had been scheduled to arrive about six months after the D-series had hit back
home.

That was more than thirteen years ago by ship's time, and three hundred and four years ago by outside
time. This ever-increasing differential between himself and the rest of the universe was something that
Slant had long ago accepted, even though he did not really understand it. Relativity was beyond him, but
he had had plenty of opportunity to observe its effects.

He was low over the mountains, and turned his attention to getting the ship down in one piece. He
suspected that the computer would interpret any increase in altitude as an attempt to avoid landing and
use the override again, so that he had to dodge between the highest peaks instead of rising above them.

Of course, in allowing him to choose the landing site, the computer left him free to choose the worst
possible place; he had done so on occasion in the past, as a petty attempt at revenge. The computer
hadn't cared in the least; that was outside its programming. This time he didn't bother, but just set down in
the first clearing that looked large enough in the area the computer had selected. None of the myriad
systems failed. Fourteen years without maintenance made that something that Slant no longer took for
granted, but the ship landed softly and smoothly and exactly where he wanted it. It immediately set about
camouflaging itself; he left that to the computer and its subsidiary machines, unplugged himself, and went
to the galley for a meal.

He had come down just on the night side of the dawn line, landing by infrared rather than visible light; by
the time he had eaten the computer reported light in the east. He was resigned to the task of scouting out
the "enemy weapons research," but he refused to be rushed, and took his own time in choosing supplies
from the lockers.

He dressed himself in leather pants and a fur vest, which he hoped would not be too conspicuously alien
to the local inhabitants; he could find no shirt that seemed suitable, and the computer reported warm
weather, so he left it at that. It was very odd to wear clothes again; with every movement he was
uncomfortably aware of the leather and fur brushing and rubbing against his skin. He considered a pair of
boots for several minutes before pulling them on; his feet immediately felt cramped and sweaty, but he
had no idea how much walking he would be doing, nor what sort of terrain he might encounter. Bare feet
might not be suitable.