"Michael Z. Williamson - Freehold 3 - Better to Beg Forgiveness" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williamson Michael Z)

There was a crew already unloading the hold, but not in the briskest fashion. That might be partly diet


and climate—they had starvation-and-manual-labor physiques, even in this lower-than-Earth
gravity—but he suspected a good part of it was laziness. Why work harder if it would not pay off?

Their pallet came out on the forks, and he waved to the operator for attention. There was a moment's
mixup as he used a hand signal he thought meant "down" that the operator understood as "tilt forward."
Bart was almost responsible for the pallet dropping and shattering, because it was the ground guide's job
to direct; the driver couldn't see anything at that angle. Bart hated being in charge, or having to rely on
someone, so neither side of this was good for him. He also knew there'd be a lot of that this tour. He was
already tense from it. The operator, at least, had been competent if not industrious.

But he managed to guide the load down, and he and Elke snapped the wheels out from where they
served as dunnage, to proper road position. The pallet could be driven by attached or remote control for
as long as its ampacitors lasted, towed as a trailer, or pushed if it had to be. By itself it was an expensive
piece of equipment, and what it contained . . . 

The others were around shortly, having brought all the personal gear, which was piled on the crates for
easy transport. They took the spare time to examine the surroundings in person.

There were moister, cooler areas near the poles. These temperate and tropical zones were dusty and
dry, largely, even close to the coasts. Rivers were few, small streams meandering into swamps being
more common. Here was simply bright yellowish Boblight, flat terrain with local gingko analogs, and
Earth palms with some coastal pines. The dust was dun.

No one commented. It was a place. That was all that could be said.

"So who's our escort? Paras?" Bart asked.

"Just an infantry convoy," Alex said.

"Great. A moving wall of raw meat to soak up fire. I hope they're large as well as stupid." He said it
mostly to twit Anderson, and it worked. Bart could see his teeth grind. That made them even for the navy
jokes the boy had been telling. "Sheep would be obvious" indeed. Humor was only funny when you
intended it to be.

They sat on their crates. They had their personal gear and water, with a few rations in case of long delay.
Ideally, they would have armed up at once. Unfortunately, a combination of factors prevented that.

First, the crates were heavily sealed and would require equipment to open. That was to prevent theft of
their very high-value items by assorted elements. BuState was also worried about "weapons in civilian
hands," which was very annoying. The team would not be the agents of that distribution. Still, until they
were on-site, they were "civilians" and couldn't touch their own gear. Always politics, always in the way


of getting the job done.

"It would be nice to fly in," Bart said. "In a vertol or even a helicopter."