"Heinlein, Robert A - Space Cadet" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

"I can't see why anyone would." The cadet eyed the pile with distaste. "Lug it back to the station and ship it home. Or throw it away."
The youngster looked blank. "You'll have to, eventually," the cadet went on. "When you make the lift to the school ship, twenty pounds is your total allowance."
"But- Well, suppose I do, who's to help me get it to the station?"
"That's your problem. If you want to be in the Patrol, you'll have to learn to cope with problems."
"But-"
"Shut up." The cadet turned away. Matt and Tex trailed along.
Five minutes later Matt, naked as an egg, was stuffing his bag and clothes into a sack marked with his serial number. As ordered, he filed through a door, clutching his orders and a remnant of dignity. He found himself in a gang refresher which showered him, scrubbed him, rinsed him, and blew
him dry again, assembly-line style. His instruction sheet was waterproof; he shook from it a few clinging drops.
For two hours he was prodded, poked, thumped, photographed, weighed, X-rayed, injected, sampled, and examined until he was bewildered. He saw Tex once, in another queue. Tex waved, slapped his own bare ribs, and shivered. Matt started to speak but his own line started up.
The medicos examined his repaired leg, making him exercise it, inquired the date of the operation, and asked if it hurt him. He found himself admitting that it did. More pictures were taken; more tests were made. Presently he was told, "That's all. Get back into line." ,
"Is it all right, sir?" Matt blurted out.
"Probably. You'll be given some exercises. Get along."
After a long time he came into a room in which several boys were dressing. His path took him across a weighing platform; his body interrupted electric-eye beams. Relays closed, an automatic sequence took place based on his weight, height, and body dimensions. Presently a package slid down a chute and plunked down in front of him.
It contained an undergarment, a blue coverall, a pair of soft boots, all in his size.
The blue uniform he viewed as a makeshift, since he was anxious to swap it for the equally plain, but oyster white, uniform of a cadet. The shoes delighted him. He zipped them on, relishing their softness and glovelike fit. It seemed as if he could stand on a coin and call it, heads or tails. "Cat feet"-his first space boots! He took a few steps, trying to walk like the cadet he had seen earlier.
"Dodson!"
"Coming." He hurried out and shortly found himself thrust into a room with an older man in civilian clothes.
"Sit down. I'm Joseph Kelly." He took Mart's instruction sheet. "Matthew Dodson . .. nice to know you, Matt."
"How do you do, Mr. Kelly."
"Not too badly. Why do you want to join the Patrol, Matt?"
"Why, uh, because-" Matt hesitated. "Well, to tell the
truth, sir, I'm so confused right now that I'm darned if I know!"
Kelly chuckled. "That's the best answer I've heard today. Do you have any brothers or sisters, Matt?" The talk wandered along, with Kelly encouraging Matt to talk. The questions were quite personal, but Matt was sophisticated enough to realize that "Mr. Kelly" was probably a psychiatrist; he stammered once or twice but he tried to answer honestly.
"Can you tell me now why you want to be in the Patrol?"
Matt thought about it "I've wanted, to go out into space ever since I can remember."
"Travel around, see strange planets and strange people- that's understandable, Matt. But why not the merchant service? The Academy is a long, hard grind, and it's three to one you won't finish, even if you are sworn in as a cadet- and not more than a quarter of the candidates will pass muster. But you could enter the merchant school-I could have you transferred today-and with your qualifications you'd be a cinch to win your pilot's ticket before you are twenty. How about it?"
Matt looked stubborn.
"Why not, Matt? Why insist on trying to be an officer of the Patrol? They'll turn you inside out and break your heart and no one will thank you for your greatest efforts. They'll make you over into a man your own mother wouldn't recognize-and you won't be any happier for it. Believe me, fellow-I know."
Matt did not say anything.
"You still want to try it, knowing chances are against you?"
"Yes. Yes, Ithink I do."
"Why, Matt?"
Matt still hesitated. Finally he answered in a low voice. "Well, people look up to an officer in the Patrol."
Mr. Kelly looked at him. "That's enough reason for now, Matt. You'll find others-or quit." A clock on the wall suddenly spoke up:
"Thirteen o'clock! Thirteen o'clock!" Then it added thoughtfully, "I'm hungry."
"Mercy me!" said Kelly. "So am I. Let's go to lunch, Matt."
II
ELIMINATION PROCESS
MATTES INSTBUCTIONS told him to mess at table 147, East Refectory. A map on the back of the sheet showed where East Refectory was; unfortunately he did not know where Matt was-he had gotten turned around in the course of the morning's rat race. He ran into no one at first but august personages in the midnight black of officers of the Patrol and he could not bring himself to stop one of them.
Eventually he got oriented by working back to the rotunda and starting over, but it made him about ten minutes late. He walked down an endless line of tables, searching for number 147 and feeling very conspicuous. He was quite pink by the time he located it.
There was a cadet at the head of the table; the others wore the coveralls of candidates. The cadet looked up and said, "Sit down, mister-over there on the right. Why are you late?"
Matt gulped. "I got lost, sir."
Someone tittered. The cadet sent a cold glance down the table. "You. You with the silly horse laugh-what's your name?"
"Uh, Schultz, sir."
"Mister Schultz, there is nothing funny about an honest answer. Have you never been lost?"
"Why- Well, uh, once or twice, maybe."
"Hm ... I shall be interested in seeing your work in astrogation, if you get that far." The cadet turned back to Matt. "Aren't you hungry? What's your name?"
"Yes, sir. Matthew Dodson, sir." Matt looked hurriedly at
the controls in front of him, decided against soup, and punched the "entree," "dessert," and "milk" buttons. The cadet was still watching him as the table served him.
"I am Cadet Sabbatello. Don't you like soup, Mr. Dodson?"