"James P. Hogan - The Genesis Machine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hogan James P)

anything he had ever dreamed of at CIT. He could still let his mind fly free,
to soar into the realm of Carl Maesanger's mysterious k-space.
It seemed to him that only minutes had passed when the reminder began
flashing in the center of the wall screen, warning him that the meeting was
due to commence in five minutes.


Chapter 2

Professor Richard Edwards, Principal Scientific Executive and second-in-
command at ACRE, contemplated the document lying on the table in front of him.
The wording on the title sheet read: K-Space Rotations and Gravity Impulses.
Seated around the corner of the table to the professor's left, Walter Massey
thumbed idly through his copy, making little of the pages of complex formulae.
Opposite Massey, Miles Corrigan leaned back in his chair and regarded Clifford
with a cool, predatory stare, making no attempt to conceal the disdain that he
felt toward all scientists.
"The rules of this Establishment are perfectly clear, Dr. Clifford,"
Edwards began, speaking over the top of his interlaced fingers. "All
scientific material produced by any person during the time he is employed at
ACRE, produced in the course of his duties or otherwise, automatically
qualifies as classified information. Precisely what are your grounds for
requesting an exemption and permission to publish this paper?"
Clifford returned his look expressionlessly, trying hard for once not to
show the irritation he felt for the whole business. He didn't like the air of
an Inquisition that had pervaded the room ever since they sat down.
His reply was terse: "Purely scientific material of academic interest
only. No security issues involved."
Edwards waited, apparently expecting more. After a few, dragging
seconds, Massey shuffled his feet uncomfortably and cleared his throat.
Massey was Clifford's immediate boss in Mathcomps. He was every inch a
practical, hard-applications engineer, fifteen years in the Army's Technical
Services Corps having left him with no great inclination toward theoretical
matters. When he was assigned a task, he did it without questioning either the
wisdom or the motives of his superiors, both of which he took for granted. It
was best not to think about such things; that always led to trouble. He
represented the end-product of the system, faithfully carrying out his side of
a symbiotic existence in which he traded off individual freedom for collective
security. He felt a part of ACRE and the institution that it symbolized, in
the same way that he had felt a part of the Army; it provided him with the
sense of belonging that he needed. He served the organization and the
organization served him; it paid him, trained him, made all his major
decisions for him, rapped his knuckles when he stepped out of line, and
promoted him when he didn't. If he had to, he would readily die fighting to
defend all that it stood for.
But Clifford didn't find him really a bad guy for all that.
Right now, Massey wasn't too happy about the way in which Clifford was
handling things. He didn't give a damn whether the paper ended up being
published or not, but it bothered him that somebody from his section didn't
seem to be putting up a good fight to speak his case. The name of the platoon