"Gordon R. Dickson - Analog - The Far Call Part" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dickson Gordon R)

SCANNER'S NOTE: This was scanned and proofed from a three part serial in Analog magazine,
Aug, Sept, Oct 1973 in summer 2006. The story was re-written, expanded, and published under the
same title in book form. There is a horrible text scan of the book out there, but no decent copies afaik.
What you are reading is the serialization from the magazine.



I

Outside the doors of the Operations and Checkout Building of the Cape Kennedy Space Center, the
heat and light of the Florida midday struck at the six emerging diplomatic representatives with such
unyielding natural force that it felt to U.S. Undersecretary Jen Wylie like walking into the solid face of a
rock cliff.
"This way, this way . . ." repeated Bill Ward; the Mars Launch Director was impatiently beckoning
them on.
Dazzled by the sunlight, the diplomats could hardly make out their large tour bus, back toward which
Bill was now leading them. They crowded into its dimly seen, long shape, like a loaf of bread with its
upper half all tinted glass coming down level with the floor of the interior. The self-adjusting, gray
coloration of that glass was now so dark in response to the sunlight outside that only indistinct, dim
shapes within hinted at seats, attendants and the driver. Crowding each other a little to escape from this
blinding furnace of a day, back into a controlled and civilized environment, the five Deputy Ministers, and
the one Undersecretary, for the International Development of Space, went one by one into the artificial
blast of air from the open bus door and up three steps to the interior. Here, suddenly, everything was
reasonable again. The nakedly white sun overhead and the stark contrast of light and shadow in the
natural landscape were toned down by the adaptable gray tint of the glass to reasonable sources of
original or reflected illumination. The renewal of coolness around them all was like a technological
blessing.
Blinking against the sudden darkening of the light, Jen turned to the dim outline of a uniformed figure
standing to his left, as he reached the top of the steps.
"Phones?" Jen asked.
"At the back, sir," the answer came. "To the left of the bar."
Jen turned down the length of the bus and went toward its rear, his vision adjusting as he went. The
ordinary seats on this vehicle had been replaced with heavy lounge chairs that swiveled or slid about to
the desires of their users. Most of his fellow diplomats had already seated themselves in these. At the
back of the bus, seeing clearly now, Jen shook his head at the white-jacketed man behind the small,
semicircular bar and stepped over to the row of three v-phones along the wall at his left. The polished
surface of the wall gave him back his imageтАФa thirtyish, tall, gangling body with a lean, bone-plain face
above it.
He sat down in the first of these and punched the code for a distance call, the particular White House
number he wanted. With the first button touched, a transparent sound baffle slid out from the side of the
phone, encompassing himself and chair. With the last button a chime-tone sounded, but the v-screen
before him retained its pearl-gray blankness.
"Scrambling," he said. He took his pocket scrambler from the inside pocket of his borrowed jacket
and slipped it into the scrambler slot at the base of the phone. A different chime note sounded.
"Scrambling," said another voice from the screen; and a second later the pearl-gray dwindled
suddenly to a dot and disappeared, to show a trim, middle-aged man in a neat gray office jacket, sitting
at a desk. It was United States Presidential Press Secretary Warner Rethe.
"Hi, Jen," said Warner. "Something extraordinary come up?"
"Can I talk to the President?" Jen asked. "He told me to come directly to him, bypassing State
Department in any special case."