"Alan Dean Foster - Flinx 3 - Orphan Star" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

Flinx's attention was quickly diverted by a soft humming. As the top of the table slid to one
side, he could see the construction involved. The table was a thick safe. Something rose from the
central hollow, a sculpture of glowing components encircled by a spiderweb of thin wiring. At the
sculpture's center was a transparent globe of glassalloy. It contained something that looked like
a clear natural crystal about the size of a man's head. It glowed with a strange inner light. At
first glance it resembled quartz, but longer inspection showed that here was a most unique
silicate.
The center of the crystal was hollow and irregular in outline. It was filled with maroon and green
particles which drifted with dreamy slowness in a clear viscous fluid. The particles were fine as
dust motes. In places they nearly reached to the edges of the crystal walls, though they tended to
remain compacted near its middle. Occasionally the velvety motes would jerk and dart about
sharply, as if prodded by some unseen force. Flinx stared into its shifting depths as if
mesmerized. ...

On Earth lived a wealthy man named Endrickson, who recently seemed to be walking about m o daze.
His family was fond of him and he was well liked by his friends. He also held the grudging
admiration of his competitors. En drickson, though he looked anything but sharp at the moment, was
one of those peculiar geniuses who possesses no creative ability of his own, but who instead
exhibits the rare power to marshal and direct the talents of those more gifted than himself.
At 5:30 on the evening of the 25th of Fifth Month, Endrickson moved more slowly than usual through
the heavily guarded corridors of The Plant. The Plant had no name-a precaution insisted on by
nervous men whose occupation it was to worry about such things-and was built into the western
slope of the Andes.
As he passed the men and women and insectoid thranx who labored in The Plant, Endrickson nodded
his greetings and was always gratified with respectful replies. They were all moving in the
opposite direction, since the work day had ended for them. They were on their way-these many, many
talented beings-to their homes in Santiago and Lima and New Delhi and New York, as well as to the


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Terran thranx colonies in the Amazon basin.
One who was not yet off duty came stiffly to attention as Endrickson turned a corner in a last,
shielded passage- way. On seeing that the visitor was not his immediate superior-a gentleman who
wore irritation, like his under- wear, outside his trousers-the well-armed guard relaxed.
Endrickson, he knew, was everyone's friend.
"Hello . . . Dav'is," the boss said slowly.
The man saluted, then studied him intently, disturbed at his appearance.
"Good evening, sir. Are you sure you're all right?"
"Yes, thank you, Davis," Endrickson replied. "I had a last-minute thought ... won't be long." He
seemed to be staring at something irregular and shiny that he held cupped in one palm. "Do you
want to see my identity card?"
The guard smiled, processed the necessary slip of treated plastic, and admitted Endrickson to the
chamber beyond which contained the shop, a vast cavern made even vaster by precision engineering
and necessity. This was the heart of The Plant.
Moving with assurance, Endrickson walked down the ramp to the sealed floor of the enlarged cavern,
passing enormous machines, long benches, and great constructs of metal and other materials. The
workshop was deserted now. It would remain so until the early-morning shift come on five hours
later.