"Songs of Distant Earth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Clarke Arthur C)

That, in fact, was the very first question that had occurred to Mayor Waldron. These two men in one small vehicle were obviously only the vanguard. Up there in orbit might be thousands--even millions. And the population of Thalassa, thanks to strict regulation, was already within ninety per cent of ecological optimum ...
'My name is Moses Kaldor,' the older of the two visitors said. 'And this is Lieutenant Commander Loren Lorenson, Assistant Chief Engineer, Starship Magellan. We apologize for these bubble suits--you'll realize that they are for our mutual protection. Though we come in friendship, our bacteria may have different ideas.'
What a beautiful voice, Mayor Waldron told herself--as well she might. Once it had been the best-known in the world, consoling--and sometimes provoking--millions in the decades before the End.
The mayor's notoriously roving eye did not, however remain long on Moses Kaldor; he was obviously well into his sixties, and a little too old for her. The younger man was much more to her liking, though she wondered if she could ever really grow accustomed to that ugly white pallor. Loren Lorenson (what a charming name!) was nearly two metres in height, and his hair was so blond as to be almost silver. He was not as husky as--well, Brant--but he was certainly more handsome.
Mayor Waldron was a good judge both of men and of women, and she classified Lorenson very quickly. Here were intelligence, determination, perhaps even ruthlessness--she would not like to have him as an enemy, but she was certainly interested in having him as a friend. Or better ...
At the same time, she did not doubt that Kaldor was a much nicer person. In his face and voice she could already discern wisdom, compassion, and also a profound sadness. Little wonder, considering the shadow under which he must have spent the whole of his life.
All the other members of the reception committee had now approached and were introduced one by one. Brant, after the briefest of courtesies, headed straight for the aircraft and began to examine it from end to end.
Loren followed him; he recognized a fellow engineer when he saw one and would be able to learn a good deal from the Thalassan's reactions. He guessed, correctly, what Brant's first question would be about. Even so, he was taken off balance.
'What's the propulsion system? Those jet orifices are ridiculously small--if that's what they are.'
It was a very shrewd observation; these people were not the technological savages they had seemed at first sight. But it would never do to show that he was impressed. Better to counterattack and let him have it right between the eyes.
'It's a derated quantum ramjet, adapted for atmospheric flight by using air as a working fluid. Taps the Planck fluctuations--you know, ten to the minus thirty-three centimetres. So of course it has infinite range, in air or in space.' Loren felt rather pleased with that 'of course'.
Once again he had to give Brant credit; the Lassan barely blinked and even managed to say, 'Very interesting,' as if he really meant it.
'Can I go inside?'
Loren hesitated. It might seem discourteous to refuse, and after all, they were anxious to make friends as quickly as possible. Perhaps more important, this would show who really had the mastery here.
'Of course,' he answered. 'But be careful not to touch anything.' Brant was much too interested to notice the absence of 'please'.
Loren led the way into the spaceplane's tiny airlock. There was just enough room for the two of them, and it required complicated gymnastics to seal Brant into the spare bubble suit.
'I hope these won't be necessary for long,' Loren explained, 'but we have to wear them until the microbiology checks are complete. Close your eyes until we've been through the sterilization cycle.'
Brant was aware of a faint violet glow, and there was a brief hissing of gas. Then the inner door opened, and they walked into the control cabin.
As they sat down side by side, the tough, yet scarcely visible films around them barely hindered their movements. Yet it separated them as effectively as if they were on different worlds--which, in many senses, they still were.
Brant was a quick learner, Loren had to admit. Give him a few hours and he could handle this machine--even though he would never be able to grasp the underlying theory. For that matter, legend had it that only a handful of men had ever really comprehended the geodynamics of superspace--and they were now centuries dead.
They quickly became so engrossed in technical discussions that they almost forgot the outside world. Suddenly, a slightly worried voice remarked from the general direction of the control panel, 'Loren? Ship calling. What's happening? We've not heard from you for half an hour.'
Loren reached lazily for a switch.
'Since you're monitoring us on six video and five audio channels, that's a slight exaggeration.' He hoped that Brant had got the message: We're in full charge of the situation, and we're not taking anything for granted. 'Over to Moses--he's doing all the talking as usual.'
Through the curved windows, they could see that Kaldor and the mayor were still in earnest discussion, with Councillor Simmons joining in from time to time. Loren threw a switch, and their amplified voices suddenly filled the cabin, more loudly than if they had been standing beside them.
'--our hospitality. But you realize, of course, that this is an extraordinarily small world, as far as land surface is concerned. How many people did you say were aboard your ship?'
'I don't think I mentioned a figure, Madame Mayor. In any event, only a very few of us will ever come down to Thalassa, beautiful though it is. I fully understand your--ah--concern, but there's no need to feel the slightest apprehension. In a year or two, if all goes well, we'll be on our way again.
'At the same time, this isn't a social call--after all, we never expected to meet anyone here! But a starship doesn't delta-vee through half the velocity of light except for very good reasons. You have something that we need, and we have something to give you.'
'What, may I ask?'
'From us, if you will accept it, the final centuries of human art and science. But I should warn you--consider what such a gift may do to your own culture. It might not be wise to accept everything we can offer.'
'I appreciate your honesty--and your understanding. You must have treasures beyond price. What can we possibly offer in exchange?'
Kaldor gave his resonant laugh.
'Luckily, that's no problem. You wouldn't even notice, if we took it without asking.
'All we want from Thalassa is a hundred thousand tons of water. Or, to be more specific, ice.'



11 Delegation

The President of Thalassa had been in office for only two months and was still unreconciled to his misfortune. But there was nothing he could do about it, except to make the best of a bad job for the three years it would last. Certainly it was no use demanding a recount; the selection program, which involved the generation and interleaving of thousand-digit random numbers, was the nearest thing to pure chance that human ingenuity could devise.
There were exactly five ways to avoid the danger of being dragged into the Presidential Palace (twenty rooms, one large enough to hold almost a hundred guests). You could be under thirty or over seventy; you could be incurably ill; you could be mentally defective; or you could have committed a grave crime. The only option really open to President Edgar Farradine was the last, and he had given it serious thought.
Yet he had to admit that, despite the personal inconvenience it had caused him, this was probably the best form of government that mankind had ever devised. The mother planet had taken some ten thousand years to perfect it, by trial and often hideous error.
As soon as the entire adult population had been educated to the limits of its intellectual ability (and sometimes, alas, beyond) genuine democracy became possible. The final step required the development of instantaneous personal communications, linked with central computers. According to the historians, the first true democracy on Earth was established in the (Terran) year 2011, in a country called New Zealand.
Thereafter, selecting a head of state was relatively unimportant. Once it was universally accepted that anyone who deliberately aimed at the job should automatically be disqualified, almost any system would serve equally well, and a lottery was the simplest procedure.
'Mr. President,' the secretary to the cabinet said, 'the visitors are waiting in the library.'
'Thank you, Lisa. And without their bubble suits?'
'Yes--all the medical people agree that it's perfectly safe. But I'd better warn you, sir. They--ah--smell a little odd.'
'Krakan! In what way?'
The secretary smiled.
'Oh, it's not unpleasant--at least, I don't think so. It must be something to do with their food; after a thousand years, our biochemistries may have diverged. "Aromatic" is probably the best word to describe it.'
The president was not quite sure what that meant and was debating whether to ask when a disturbing thought occurred to him.