"07 - Conrad's Time Machine (b)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Frankowski Leo)

months, awaiting their security clearances before they were allowed to work on
the equipment that they had just spent a year learning how to fix. Why these
clearances weren't obtained while they were still in school, saving fifteen
percent of their useful careers, was one of those little unexplained military
mysteries.
Our colonel's beautification plan was that I should drive ten of the boots out
into the nearby woods, have them dig up nine likely looking trees, and drive the
trees and boots back. We would then plant the trees about the squadron area at
the points specified on the enclosed sketch by that evening. Why we couldn't do
this during the week, when all of those guys were idle, or doing useless
make-work, was also not explained. Neither was why this qualified as an
emergency sufficient to pull me in from a weekend pass, but then the Air Force
never bothered to explain things to an airman.
So I did it, making the boots do all the work.
Then I showered up, and, too tired to sleep, I went to a blind pig hidden below
its neon sign in the basement of a Baptist church just outside the gate.
Sensibly, I got stinking drunk while mulling over the injustices of the world. I
was still unhappy when I returned to the barracks at three in the morning. The
colonel wasn't available to hear my suggestions, so I ripped the newly planted
trees out by the roots and threw them halfway to the parking lot.
Feeling much better, I found my room and went to sleep.
I'm bigger than most people.
When I got up late on Sunday afternoon, the sun was setting, somebody had
replanted the trees, and the girl in Toronto wouldn't talk to me on the phone.
It was thus reasonable to get drunk again, and wandering back, I came across the
replanted trees.
I ripped them all out again, and this time, using a hammer-throw technique,
sailed one of them all the way to the parking lot, narrowly missing somebody's
fifty-seven Chevy.
The same thing happened Monday night, too, since by then somebody had once more
replanted the trees. Actually, it happened almost every night for about a month,
and after a while it got so that I didn't even have to get drunk first. I had
found a certain relief from tension and a deep-seated satisfaction in ripping up
those trees and giving them a good toss.
The strange thing is that nobody ever saw me do it, or if they did, they didn't
talk about it, but then most people don't realize that I'm really a very gentle
person, if you give me half a chance.
In a month or so, I was pretty sure that the trees were dead, what with the way
the bark was falling off, and after that I left them alone.
That had been six months ago and they were still out there, because the colonel
hadn't given any orders about them. Likely, he hadn't noticed.
My mark on the Air Force. Nine dead trees.
I carried my belongings to the garage outside of the gate and settled up with
the owner of the place.
Motorcycles weren't allowed on base. They had the wrong image by Air Force
standards, although they were allowed up at the Notch, since civilians weren't
allowed within sight of the place. They'd give you a sticker for one to let you
past the Elite Guard, through the gate, and to the small parking lot. From there
it was a short walk past more guards, past the thick steel blast doors, and into
the generator-packed tunnel that led deep into the hollowed out mountain.