"Alan E. Nourse - Morley's Chain" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nourse Alan E)

finished her letter at a leisurely pace, and finally looked up at him, her eyes cold. "Well?"
"I read your ad. I'm looking for a job. I'd like to speak to Mr. Randall."
The girl's eyes narrowed, and she took him in in a rapid, sweeping glance, his high, pale forehead, the
shock of mud-blond hair, the thin, sensitive face with the exaggerated lines of approaching middle age,
the slightly misty blue eyes. It seemed to Tam that she stared for a full minute, and he shifted uneasily,
trying to meet the cold inspection, and failing, finally settling his eyes on her prim, neatly manicured
fingers. Her lip curled very slightly. "Mr. Randall can't see you today. He's busy. Try again tomorrow."
She turned back to typing.
A flat wave of defeat sprang up in his chest. "The ad said to apply today. The earlier the better."
She sniffed indifferently, and pulled a long white sheet from the desk. "Have you filled out an
application?"
"No."
"You can't see Mr. Randall without filling out an application." She pointed to a small table across the
room, and he felt her eyes on his back as he shuffled over and sat down.
He began filling out the application with great care, making the printing as neat as he could with the
old-style vacuum pen provided. Name, age, sex, race, nationality, planet where born, pre-Revolt
experience, post-Revolt experience, preferenceтАФtry as he would, Tarn couldn't keep the ancient pen
from leaking, making an unsightly blot near the center of the form. Finally he finished, and handed the
paper back to the girl at the desk. Then he sat back and waited.
Another man came in, filled out a form, and waited, too, shooting Tam a black look across the room.
In a few moments the girl turned to the man. "Robert Stover?"
"Yuh," said the man, lumbering to his feet. "That's me."
"Mr. Randall will see you now."
The man walked heavily across the room, disappeared into the back office. Tam eyed the clock
uneasily, still waiting.
A garish picture on the wall caught his eyes, a large, very poor oil portrait of a very stout, graying
man dressed in a ridiculous green suit with a little white turban-like affair on the top of his head.
Underneath was a little brass plaque with words Tam could barely make out:
Abraham L. Ferrel (1947-1986)
Founder and First President Marsport Mines, Incorporated
"Unto such men as these, we look to leadership."
Tam stared at the picture, his lip curling slightly. He glanced anxiously at the clock as another man
was admitted to the small back office.
Then another man. Anger began creeping into Tam's face, and he fought to keep the scowl away, to
keep from showing his concern. The hands of the clock crept around, then around again. It was almost
noon. Not a very new dodge, Tam thought coldly. Not very new at all. Finally the small cold flame of
anger got the better of him, and he rose and walked over to the desk. "I'm still here," he said patiently.
"I'd like to see Mr. Randall."
The girl stared at him indignantly, and flipped an intercom switch. "That Peters application is still out
here," she said brittlely. "Do you want to see him, or not?"
There was a moment of silence. Then the voice on the intercom grated, "Yes, I guess so. Send him
in."
The office was smaller, immaculately neat. Two visiphone units hung on a switchboard at the man's
elbow. Tam's eyes caught the familiar equipment, recognized the interplanetary power coils on one. Then
he turned his eyes to the man behind the desk.
"Now, then, what are you after?" asked the man, settling his bulk down behind the desk, his eyes
guarded, revealing a trace of boredom.

TAMTAM was suddenly bitterly of his shabby appearance, the two-day stubble on his chin. He felt
a dampness on his forehead, and tried to muster some of the old power and determination into his voice.