"Joseph Green - Walk Barefoot on the Glass" - читать интересную книгу автора (Green Joseph)

Dr. Winston Takamira assembled the papers spread before him and tucked them away in his
comfortably worn briefcase. He felt like an actor who has bored his audience. Still, it had been almost as
bad two years ago, and all four committee members had voted against then chairman.
It had been shrewd of foxy old McGinnis to recognize Win's speech as a reworked one. He should
have forced himself to write a new version. But Moon-Eye had existed long enough to be considered an
institution, and Win had become complacent about this annual appearance before Congress. He would
have to be more careful in the future.
It took a distinct effort for Win to straighten his stooped shoulders, lift the heavy briefcase, and walk
out of the room. He had been on the Moon for ten years, arriving during the first phase of construction.
Short stints back on Earth were not enough to adjust. He felt unduly heavy here, as though his slight
frame was badly overweight. It was always a physical relief to get back to Moon-Eye.
Outside, he spotted his government steamie waiting at the curb. The driver opened the door for him,
and Win sank into the padded seat with a tired sigh.
"I guess it must be hard on you to come back down to the real world, sir," volunteered the driver, as
he eased into the congested Washington traffic.
"It's tough on old bones," Win agreed, his mind elsewhere. "Did you get in touch with Len
Sterenko?"
"Yes, sir, just like you asked. He'll meet you at Kennedy for the lift-off at ten o'clock tonight."
"Good; thank you."
They had progressed only a few blocks down Pennsylvania Avenue before a commotion in front
brought the already creeping traffic to , a halt. The driver stopped, then got out and peered ahead. He
returned to his seat and said, "Another Food-For-The-Hungry demonstration, sir, coming right at us. We
may as well let it go by."
Win glanced at his watch, grumbling under his breath. He had hoped to enjoy a peaceful dinner with
his daughter's family in New York before catching the shuttle. He conscientiously tried to see his
grandchildren on each trip, though he felt certain the two youngsters were as quickly bored with their
grandfather as he with them. And he had never actually been very close to his only child, for that matter.
Work had occupied too much of his time when she was small. And wife Mildred had seen to it daughter
Ann grew up feeling deeply neglected by her father.
The first marchers reached the car, threading their way through the stalled traffic with banners and
placards held high. Win forced himself to sit back and read the often crudely printed but always large
words: PLANT MONEY IN THE SAND and FEED THE HUNGRY PEOPLE seemed to dominate.
One long banner, carried by two nude young women shivering in a cool autumn breeze, read WHEN A
CHILD IS HUNGRY YOUR BELLY SHOULD HURT. Several were variations on the theme,
MONEY FOR MOJAVE-BREAD FOR BRAZOS.
"What the hell!" Win said in surprise. "You mean these people want to expand the Mojave Project so
we can send food to another country?"
"Yes, sir, that they do." The driver, a stout, red-headed freckle-faced man in his late forties, turned to
face his passenger. "We got enough wheat in the storage bins to support Brazos for three years, and the
Ag guys say they can have the whole Mojave producing by then. All the people are one, and hundreds of
thousands are starving down there. Just 'cause they speak Spanish and us English is no reason not to
send 'em our surplus food."
"The Brazos people speak Portuguese, not Spanish," Win muttered, watching the laughing, chattering
crowd stream by. They were mostly young people, but a few were elderly. All looked well-fed.
The driver turned back to the front. A roll of fat on the back of his neck was red with repressed
anger. They waited in silence until the last of the demonstrators passed, and traffic resumed moving.
Amused and a little irritated, Win tried to reopen the conversation. "Feeding the hungry people of
Brazos sounds very commendable, but we already give away many billions in food each yearтАФsome of it
to Brazos. We can't possibly feed the whole hungry world. Don't you think we'd be smarter to devote
more of our resources to long-term goals that could benefit all mankind? Such as, say, the control of