"James P. Hogan - The Proteus Operation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hogan James P)

"To meet some people whom I have no doubt you'll find interesting."

"Oh, really? Such as?"

"How about JFK for a start?"

Ferracini frowned. He knew that while Winslade had a way of playing with people sometimes,
he never joked frivolously. Winslade smirked, his pale gray eyes twinkling behind rimless,
semicircular spectacles, and his mouth stretched into a thin, upturned line.

In his late fifties at least, with a rounded face, ruddy complexion and nose to match,
medium build, and white wisps of hair showing above his ears, Winslade would have cut a good
figure as a jovial but slimmed-down Mt. Pickwick. In addition to his soft, floppy-brimmed black
hat he was wearing a heavy gray overcoat with fur-trimmed lapels, a dark silk scarf, and brown
leather gloves. He was clasping the carved top of an ornamental cane standing propped between his
knees.

The most anybody seemed to know about Winslade was just as much as they needed to, which
was never very much, usually no more than he chose to disclose. Ferracini, for sure, had never
really figured out exactly who Winslade was or what he did; but he did know that Winslade walked
in and out of every department of the Pentagon with impunity, dined regularly at the White House,
and seemed to be on first-name terms with the directors of nearly every major scientific research
institution in the country. Also, in talking with Winslade over the several years in which their
paths had been crossing intermittently, Ferracini had formed the distinct impression of Winslade
as a man who was far from new to the business of undercover operations -- and not only
theoretically, but in terms of hard, firsthand experience as well. He suspected that Winslade had
been operationally active himself once, long ago, possibly; but he couldn't be sure because
Winslade never talked much about himself.

The sedan slowed as it approached the gate leading out of the dockyard area. The barrier
rose, and a Navy Police corporal waved them through while the two guards presented arms. Once
through the gate, the car accelerated and turned in the direction of the air base.

Refusing to play further question-and-answer games, Ferracini clamped his jaw tight and
thrust out his chin obstinately. Winslade shrugged, then smiled and reached into the briefcase
beside him to draw out a neatly made, pocket-size portable radio, with a black front panel, silver
knobs, and chrome trim. It was smaller than anything Ferracini had seen before, apart from secret
military devices, and had a hinged cover on the front.

"Empire-built Japanese," Winslade commented as he flipped the cover open with a thumb.
"You won't see anything like it here, but the children there carry them around in the streets. It
even plays recordings on magnetic cassette tapes. Want to hear one?" He produced a tiny cartridge,
inserted it into a space behind the cover, snapped the flap shut, and pressed a switch. Then he
rested the radio on his knee and sat back in his seat, watching Ferracini's face.

Ferracini stared in disbelief as powerful, swinging music poured from the speaker, with a
clarinet leading over several saxophones to a lively, thumping rhythm of accentuated bass. It was
unlike anything that he had ever heard. The popular music of the seventies tended to be a mixture
of militaristic and patriotic marches, Wagner and the dreary dirges of the people who thought