"David Langford - Cube Root" - читать интересную книгу автора (Langford David)

_First signs of insubordination evident almost immediately_, said
Faulkner to his mental notebook. Not quite unconsciously, he rubbed at the
slim band of transparent, smoky plastic circling his right wrist. All the men
wore them. Faulkner found himself taking a morbid interest in his.
The Land-Rovers and the camp were tucked under the flank of a high,
granite-tipped tor. Cube Root orders specified "no line-of-sight visibility
from military or civilian targets including roads." In a hollow further down
the slope, the greygreen waters of a tarn moved sluggishly under the wind.
Unit 338 (Capt. Mackin commanding) was having a practice wrestle with heavy,
rubberized protective suits, pretending to occupy a contaminated zone. When in




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doubt, give the dummies something to keep them busy, Faulkner reflected. As an
attached civilian, he could loaf a little.
Afterwards, still prickling with sweat, they drank tea.
"Wonder how effective that camouflage really is," said Faulkner
conversationally, pointing to the daubed and dappled vehicles.
"Pretty good, I'd say." That was the loyal Gray.
"Should have painted them bright yellow," said Spratt. "Blend in with
all these bloody gorse flowers."
"You mean satellites?" Finlay said to Faulkner.
"Yes...I dunno," said Faulkner, who knew quite well. "All this
dispersal; and the eyes they have up there can track us all over the moor,
I'll bet."
"Your business is with the medical supplies." Mackin sounded distant.
Since the communications closedown he'd been barricading himself behind
thicker and thicker layers of protocol, of routine. Faulkner dropped
submissively out of the conversation. Another dangerous thought was loose in
Unit 338, helping the buildup to critical mass.
****
Finlay's business was with communications. As the light began to fade over the
bare moorland, he unfolded his apparatus and began laboriously to compose a
situation report.
"Suppose you didn't hear we're off the air," said Lewdown
indifferently, peering over the technician's shoulder.
"Piss off," said Finlay, this being his way of pointing out that Cube
Root orders were for scrambled reports to go into the Net whether or not
anything was coming out.
_Stress symptoms_, noted Faulkner as with pursed lips Finlay
backtracked up the screen for some minute correction, and Lewdown made pitying
_tch-tch_ noises.
The automatic mental annotation continued. _The existence of a state of
emergency helps crystallize behaviour. Lewdown's strategy for countering
stress is to manoeuvre himself into positions of justifiable contempt for
others' activities, an exaggeration of his normal cynical stance. Finlay,
meanwhile, prefers to immerse himself in minor duties_...Later he would
transfer the impressions to his case notebook.