"Continuing Time - 01 - Emerald Eyes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moran Daniel Keys)

newsdancerТs sympathies in the matter, simply in the style in which the
newsdancer wrote the Secretary GeneralТs title. Those who used the currently
popular Ministre General, rather than the historically correct English title,
had little good to say about either the telepaths or those who supported them.
Only one story in the entire first section was not about the passage of the
Eighth Amendment, a SpaceFarer smuggler had been apprehended with an entire
cargo hold full of GoodBeer from St PeterТs CityState, in the Asteroid Belt. Any
other day it would have been a front-screen story, perhaps the headline. Of the
remaining stories, almost all concerned the conflict between Amnier and
Kalharri.
Unfortunately, one of the newsdancers had not been content with the obvious
story, that newsdancer had taken Carl Castanaveras for a ride down the boulevard
with the spotlights turned on. The style was familiar, Carl paged down the
article until he came to the sign-off.
Gerold McKann, special to the Electronic Times. Carl Castanaveras shook his head
from side to side, hardly aware he was doing so. The pictures of him were good,
a man of average height, with the build of a swimmer, in conservative business
attire. He sipped at his coffee, vaguely aware of a need to finish the cup
before it went cold. The video tablet showed several different holos, most of
them apparently taken from his testimony before the Unification Council earlier
that year. The color reproduction was good; the brilliant green eyes leapt out
from beneath a shock of black hair exactly as they did in real life, and with
very nearly as much impact.
The text was well written and devastating; it focused on the circumstances that
had led to the telepathsТ petition, and the role Carl Castanaveras had played in
freeing the telepaths from the control of the United Nations Peace Keeping
Force.
It was all highly approving.
Briefly, Carl smiled without any humor at all. Gerry, my friend, he thought
grimly, I am going to nail your ass to the wall.
Across the aisle, a woman was staring at him. She looked down at her news
viewer, and then back up again. Her features froze into an unpleasant mixture
somewhere between hatred and embarrassment.
Carl stared directly at her until she turned away.

There was a flicker on the Information Network.
United Nations Peace Keeping Staff Sergeant Emile Garon looked around his small
cubicle. He was near the end of his second year in this cubicle now; two years
spent monitoring use of the Information Network, two years plugged into a bank
of Fairchild gallium arsenide transputers, two years with the superconductor RAM
hardwired into his skull. The cubicleТs walls were off-white, and he was
forbidden to decorate them.
The room was information sterile, intentionally. There should be nothing there
to distract him from his job.
Paris, he thought for the hundredth time that week. I left Paris for this.
Two hundred meters below the surface of New York City, Peaceforcer Emile Garon
sighed and closed his eyes, and hoped desperately that the flicker would become
a trace that would take him out into the Crystal Wind of data that was life.
And returned to work.