"Timothy Zahn - Deadman Switch" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zahn Timothy)

"It isn't," he said firmly, "and I'm afraid I insist. I want you there with Randon." He hesitated. "I
realize the whole idea of the Deadman Switch bothers you, but I'm sure you can handle it this once."

Solitaire... and the Deadman Switch. For a moment I nearly told him no, that this time the price was
too high. But even as I opened my mouth, the quiet reminder of why I was working for him in the
first place drained the defiance away.

As it always seemed to do. Punishing the parents' fault in the children and in the grandchildren to
the third and fourth generation... "All right, sir," I told him instead. "I'll do my best."




Chapter 2
The Carillon Group numbered several small courier ships among its modest fleet, and I naturally
expected our group would ride one or more of those to Whitecliff, transferring at that point to one of
HTI's freighters. But Lord Kelsey-Ramos would have none of that. This was his personal triumph,
and he had no intention of having us ride someone else's ship into Solitaire like hitchhikers or
afterthought cargo.

Which consideration made it almost inevitable that he would saddle us with the Bellwether.

From his point of view, it was a generous favor, of course. His own personal craft, the Bellwether
was a genuine superyacht, with all the luxury and heavy-duty status that that implied. Unfortunately,
the size and sleek lines carried their own hidden costs: the size meant the Bellwether could do only
eighteen hours at a stretch on Mjollnir drive before having to go space-normal to dump its excess
heat; and the sleek lines meant it then took up to six hours to cool down enough to continue on.

Which meant that instead of the twenty-three-plus light-years per day a heavily radiation-finned
courier ship could cover, we stodgered along at barely eighteen. Which meant the hundred-odd light-
years to Whitecliff took us nearly six days to cover, instead of a courier's four and a half.

Which meant HTI's representatives in Alabaster City were primed, ready, and waiting when we
arrived.

—
I'd half expected them to try and hide their preparation, but they apparently knew better than to try
and play stupid. Instead, they'd opted for the opposite response: laying the honey on with a sealant
spreader.

It started practically before we'd even gotten our feet on the ground, with the spaceport director
himself greeting us at the Bellwether's gatelock as we disembarked. He bubbled a message of

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Deadman Switch

greeting tinged with nervous awe, led us through an artificially brief customs ritual, and then
escorted us across the terminal to the connecting hotel. The three best suites, we found, had already
been reserved for us, as had the most secure meeting/privacy room on the lobby level. Randon left a