JК
World Of Ptavvs :: Нивен Ларри
Страница: 109 из 127Old and leathery and hairless and sedentary, he would tell those children: "I saw a world burning when I was young…" He would never see anything as strange.
Pluto was a black disc almost covering his scope screen, with a cold highlight near the sunward arm. In that disc the broad ring of fire had almost become a great circle, with one arc crawling over the edge of the world. When it contracted on the other side of the world there would be an explosion such as could only be imagined. But in the center the ring was darkening to black, its fuel nearly burned out.
The coldest spot within the ring was the point where the fire had started.
The Golden Circle had gone straight up, ringing and shivering from the blast, with sheets of fire roaring past the wing and hull. Kzanol/Greenberg had the wind knocked out of him. Kzanol was just now recovering consciousness. The ship was not yet harmed. It certainly hadn't been harmed by the heat of combustion. The ship's underbelly was built to withstand fusion heat for weeks.
But the pilot was out of control. His reflexes had taken over at the instant the shock wave hit, and then his conscious mind… He found himself his own master for the first time in weeks, and he made his decision. He turned off the fuel feed. The drive couldn't possibly be started again. Kzanol raged and told him to die, and he did, but it was too late. The ship, deprived of power, bucked and swooped in the burning wind.
Kzanol/Greenberg cursed fluent and ancient English.
Below him a wall of fire tens of miles high retreated to-ward the horizon. The ship hadn't turned over; the gyros must still be working.
The buffeting from below eased as the firelight died. The ship began to fall.
Deliberately, reluctantly, Lew took his eyes off the screen and shook himself. Then he turned on the radio. "All ships," he said. "Drive to Pluto at max. We can watch the fireworks on the way. Tartov, program us a course to land us on the dawn side of whatever's left of Cott's Crescent. Hexter, you haven't done anything useful lately. Find Ceres with a maser so I can fill them in to date. Comments?"
"This is Tartov. Low, for Pete's sake! The planet's on fire! How can we land?"
"We've got four million miles to drive. The fire should be out when we get there. Oh, all right, get us into an orbit, but you're still gonna program our landing."
"I think we ought to leave a ship in orbit. Just in case."
"All right, Mabe. We'll gamble for who stays up. More comments?"
Three men and a woman pushed buttons that squirted.
Pluto was a black disc almost covering his scope screen, with a cold highlight near the sunward arm. In that disc the broad ring of fire had almost become a great circle, with one arc crawling over the edge of the world. When it contracted on the other side of the world there would be an explosion such as could only be imagined. But in the center the ring was darkening to black, its fuel nearly burned out.
The coldest spot within the ring was the point where the fire had started.
The Golden Circle had gone straight up, ringing and shivering from the blast, with sheets of fire roaring past the wing and hull. Kzanol/Greenberg had the wind knocked out of him. Kzanol was just now recovering consciousness. The ship was not yet harmed. It certainly hadn't been harmed by the heat of combustion. The ship's underbelly was built to withstand fusion heat for weeks.
But the pilot was out of control. His reflexes had taken over at the instant the shock wave hit, and then his conscious mind… He found himself his own master for the first time in weeks, and he made his decision. He turned off the fuel feed. The drive couldn't possibly be started again. Kzanol raged and told him to die, and he did, but it was too late. The ship, deprived of power, bucked and swooped in the burning wind.
Kzanol/Greenberg cursed fluent and ancient English.
Below him a wall of fire tens of miles high retreated to-ward the horizon. The ship hadn't turned over; the gyros must still be working.
The buffeting from below eased as the firelight died. The ship began to fall.
Deliberately, reluctantly, Lew took his eyes off the screen and shook himself. Then he turned on the radio. "All ships," he said. "Drive to Pluto at max. We can watch the fireworks on the way. Tartov, program us a course to land us on the dawn side of whatever's left of Cott's Crescent. Hexter, you haven't done anything useful lately. Find Ceres with a maser so I can fill them in to date. Comments?"
"This is Tartov. Low, for Pete's sake! The planet's on fire! How can we land?"
"We've got four million miles to drive. The fire should be out when we get there. Oh, all right, get us into an orbit, but you're still gonna program our landing."
"I think we ought to leave a ship in orbit. Just in case."
"All right, Mabe. We'll gamble for who stays up. More comments?"
Three men and a woman pushed buttons that squirted.