"Robert A. Heinlein - The Green Hills of Earth (Collected Stor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

Tiny bit his lip. The C.I. said, "The Superintendent doesn't bother with
trivia-I'm Robert Dalrymple, Chief Inspector. He probably didn't introduce his
assistant either-Mr. Witherspoon."
"Call me Dad," I said.
She smiled and said, "Howdy, Dad." I felt warm clear through. She went
on to Dalrymple, "Odd that we haven't met before."
Tiny butted in. "McNye, you'll sleep in my room-"
She raised her eyebrows; he went on angrily, "Oh, I'll get my stuff out-at
once. And get this: keep the door locked, off shift.'
"You're darn tootin' I will!"
Tiny blushed.
I was too busy to see much of Miss Gloria. There was cargo to stow,
the new tanks to install and shield. That left the most worrisome task of all:
putting spin on the living quarters. Even the optimists didn't expect much
interplanetary traffic for some years; nevertheless Harriman Enterprises
wanted to get some activities moved in and paying rent against their
enormous investment.
I.T.&T. had leased space for a microwave relay station several million a
year from television alone. The Weather Bureau was itching to set up its
hemispheric integrating station; Palomar Observatory had a concession
(Harriman Enterprises donated that space); the Security Council had, some
hush-hush project; Fermi Physical Labs and Kettering Institute each had
space-a dozen tenants wanted to move in now, or sooner, even if we never
completed accommodations for tourists and travelers.
5
 There were time bonuses in it for Five Companies, Incorporated-and
their help. So we were in a hurry to get spin on the quarters.
People who have never been out have trouble getting through their
heads-at least I had-that there is no feeling of weight, no up and down, in a
free orbit in space. There's' Earth, round and beautiful, only twenty-odd
thousand miles away, close enough to brush your sleeve. You know it's
pulling you towards it. Yet you feel no weight, absolutely none. You float..
Floating is fine for some types of work, but when it's time to eat, or play
cards, or bathe, it's good to feel weight on your feet. Your dinner stays quiet
and you feel more natural.
You've seen pictures of the Station-a huge cylinder, like a bass drum,
with ships' nose pockets dimpling its sides. Imagine a snare drum, spinning
around inside the bass drum; that's the living quarters, with centrifugal force
pinch-hitting for gravity. We could have spun the whole Station but you can't
berth a ship against a whirling dervish.
So we built a spinning part for creature comfort and an outer, stationary
part for docking, tanks, storerooms, and the like. You pass from one to the
other at the hub. When Miss Gloria joined us the inner part was closed in and
pressurized, but the rest was a skeleton of girders.
Mighty pretty though, a great network of shiny struts and ties against
black sky and stars-titanium alloy 1403, light, strong, and non-corrodible. The
Station is flimsy compared with a ship, since it doesn't have to take blastoff
stresses. That meant we didn't dare put on spin by violent means-which is
where jato units come in.
"Jato"-Jet Assisted Take-Off-rocket units invented to give airplanes a