"Forward, Robert L - Rocheworld 01 - Rocheworld (The Flight of the Dragonfly) 5.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Forward Robert L)

"We'll keep watching him until the satellite position gets so bad we can't maintain a beam," he said. "I just thought you'd like to see your old buddy in person."
"He's no buddy of mine," said Winthrop. "I could kick his goddamn ass for all the goddamn hassle he gave me on the Strategic Missiles sub-panel at the last disarmament talks."
Winthrop turned to Armstrong. "Too bad you couldn't put some kickback into that spy system of yours, Armstrong," he said. "We seem close enough so I could kick that goddamn fat rump of his.
Winthrop turned and marched out the door. "Cum'on Alan," he said. "Let's go back to my office."
* * * *
"So that's the way it turned out, Alan," said General Winthrop. "General Jones got the top post and that goddamn Gudunov was made second in command. I did my goddamnedest, but the best I could get for you was third post."
"I don't understand it," said Alan. "I outrank George. He's only a Lieutenant Colonel and I'm a Bird Colonel."
"He isn't any more," said Winthrop. "The President gave him a promotion along with the position."
"Well, then. Why don't you promote me? That way I'll outrank him, and he and I would have to switch posts. Besides, you promised me a promotion."
"I know I did," said Winthrop with a frown. "And I thought it would be easy, especially if you were picked for the second spot. But that would make you the youngest general in the Air Force at only 31 years of age. You may be good, but I couldn't get the rest of the Joint Chiefs of Staff to go along with me, especially considering the problems it would cause by having that goddamn Gudunov over you. Even though it is technically a non-military mission, it just wouldn't do to have a Colonel bossing a General around."
"You promised me a star, sir," said Alan petulantly. "I want my star."
"OK! OK!! I'll work on it."
Suddenly Winthrop grew pensive. "Hmm," he said. "That may be the way to pay that goddamn Gudunov back for all the goddamn trouble he's caused. Once the mission is underway, General Jones will be in complete charge. Even the President won't butt in to tell her what to do. Jinjur is a strict do-things-by-the-rules military commander, and even though this is technically a civilian mission, she wouldn't allow a General to be subordinate to a Colonel.
"You just take this third-rank slot, Alan, and once the mission is underway, and there is no way anyone can do anything about it, I'll get you promoted to General. Then, unless you goof up, like not giving the General what she wants," he paused at this point, an evil-minded sneer on his face. "You'll soon find yourself second-in-command, and that goddamn Gudunov will get the kick in his goddamn ass that he deserves.
"Now. What we need is some way for you and me to communicate without anyone else knowing, especially Jinjur and that goddamn Gudunov. Since you're going to be in charge of communications, that should be easy. But how?"
Alan looked upward at the ceiling for a moment. "There are a number of ways," he said. "Let's see...
* * * *
"Now the rock-hounds," said Jinjur. "I really feel at a loss here. These types love to muck around in the mud, while the last thing I want to do is pound dirt again. Whom do the GNASA people recommend?"
"We have a real dilemma here, Virginia," said George. "The one most qualified has a number of significant problems. He doesn't have an advanced degree, he's too tall for the beds on _Prometheus_, and worst of all, he's forty-three years old."
"You should talk, greybeard," said Jinjur. "Who is he?"
"The head of the Galilean satellite mapping expedition, Sam Houston."
"He's too tall?" said Jinjur, in genuine bewilderment. "I've escorted a number of his expeditions and met him many times. Are you sure he's tall?"
William looked at George questioningly. George figured it out and told him in a loud stage whisper.
"When the only time you meet someone is at a station in free-fall, everyone comes to the same level. It's a comment on Jinjur's ego that she always thought she was taller than Sam. I've met him twice, and there was never any question in _my_ mind."
Jinjur ignored them. "Sam it is, then," said Jinjur. "But we need two of them. Who has the next best recommendation?"
"It's a brave young man," said William, with a flash of his mischievous smile. "He has a generally good background, but there's a reservation in it."
"I'm beginning to catch on to your twings, Sail-Ears," said Jinjur. "It must be Richard the Red."
* * * *
Richard Redwing leaned his not inconsiderable hundred-plus kilograms on the ice drill and lifted himself up on tip-toe. He could feel the motor whining through the gloves of his space-suit, but there was no downward motion. He wished he had some purchase so he could use his muscles to drive the drill-bit through the rounded pebble that was blocking its path, but on Callisto there was never any purchase, no topography whatsoever...
"...and no gravity to speak of," complained the planetary geophysicist, who finally gave up and pulled the incomplete core from the hole, breaking it into segments as he did so, and throwing the striated columns of ice to the crust in disgust. He moved over a meter and started in again, cursing under his breath in resignation. He was three meters down when his suit speaker relayed a message.
"Sam requests your presence at the Main Dome as soon as convenient," the whispered sonorance announced.
Richard was bewildered by the message. He stopped the drill and asked, "What in Sam Hill does Sam Houston want?" There was a long pause from the speaker, and Richard finally realized that the commsat had gone over the horizon. He leaned on his drill again.
"GOOD NEWS!!!" boomed the speaker in an imitation of Sam's voice. "Sorry that I didn't check the 'sat positions before I called. Can you come in?" Richard didn't physically flinch at the booming voice, but emotionally he had almost jumped out of his skin.
_As subtle as a tomahawk in the ear_, he murmured to himself. "I'll be there as soon as I finish this core, Sam," he replied. "Can the good news wait?"
"Sure," said Sam. "See you soon."
* * * *
Richard loped into the office of the head geophysicist on the Outer Planets. He was relieved that he didn't have to duck as he came through the door. Sam was not only big enough in status to obtain special treatment for his living and working quarters, he was big enough physically to need them. At a full two meters, Sam Houston's spare frame had to bend to get through any doors but his own specially constructed ones. Richard's hairline, nearly five centimeters less, went through without ruffling the invisible feather that he subconsciously wore on his head like some people wear a chip on their shoulder.
"Good news!" Sam boomed again, this time in person. He didn't waste time. "You've been chosen to be one of the crew of _Prometheus_!" he said.
Richard was elated.
"Wow!" he said, his normal reserve dissolving into a smiling, exuberant, caricature of himself that was more appropriate for a college freshman than a professional. He had stoically resigned himself to the fact that there were hundreds of applicants for each position on the crew. When he had lost two toes during a mountain rescue in his twenties, he had figured that the minor physical handicap would be enough to keep him out. It wasn't much of a handicap, but when you have a dozen young, intelligent, fully qualified applicants, why pick one that was stupid enough to lose two toes?
"That _is_ good news," Richard said. "When do I go?"
"The ferry-boat coming to pick you up will be arriving in three days," Sam replied. "You'd better get ready."
"Gee, Sam," Richard said, "I hate leaving you in the lurch like this, with us five ice-cores behind schedule."
"Found another round-rock layer, have you?" grinned Sam, his smile getting broader as he talked. "But that is neither your problem or mine," he said. "You aren't leaving me in the lurch."
"But all those cores..." protested Richard.
"All those cores are the next director's problem," Sam said. "You weren't the only one chosen for the expedition!
"We're _both_ going to the stars!!!"
* * * *
"We need two heavy-lift pilots," said Jinjur. "This handsome young one with the stuttering name, Thomas St. Thomas, is an obvious first choice. What bothers me is the rich bitch, Elizabeth Vengeance," said Jinjur. "Why did the evaluators pick her over hundreds of other candidates for lift pilot? And why would she want to give up all her billions to spend the rest of her life cooped up in tin cans? I think she's on a publicity kick."
"Red was the first of the asteroid belt miners and has more experience landing on small rotating moons than anyone else," said George. "As for her billions, it all came in a lucky find of a ten-kilometer asteroid of nearly pure nickel-iron. I think she is getting tired of being a rich ground pounder."