"Chad Oliver - Blood's a Rover" - читать интересную книгу автора (Oliver Chad)

Conan Lang left the directive on his desk and got to his feet. He walked over to the window and
looked out at the lights sprinkled over the city. There werenтАЩt many. Most people were long ago home in
the country, sitting around the living room, playing with the kids. He puffed slowly on his pipe.
Another bag of medals. Nelson wasnтАЩt kidding anybodyтАФwasnтАЩt even trying to, really. He knew how
Conan felt because he felt the same way. They all did, sooner or later. It was fascinating at first, even fun,
this tampering with the lives of other people. But the novelty wore off in a hurryтАФshriveled like flesh in
acid under a million eyes of hate, a million talks with your soul at three in the morning, a million shattered
lives. Sure, it was necessary. You could always tell yourself that; that was the charm, the magic word that
was supposed to make everything fine and dandy. NecessaryтАФbut for you, not for them. Or perhaps for
them too, in the long run.
Conan Lang returned to his desk and flipped on the intercom. тАЬI want out,тАЭ he said. тАЬThe
Administration Library, Division of Extraterrestrial Anthropology. IтАЩd like to speak to Bailey if heтАЩs
there.тАЭ
He had to wait thirty seconds.
тАЬBailey here,тАЭ the intercom said.
тАЬThis is Lang. WhatтАЩve you got on Sirius Ten?тАЭ
тАЬJust like that, huh? Hang on a second.тАЭ
There was a short silence. Conan Lang smoked his pipe slowly and smiled as he visualized Bailey
punching enough buttons to control a space fleet.
тАЬLetтАЩs see,тАЭ BaileyтАЩs voice came through the speaker. тАЬWeтАЩve got a good bit. ThereтАЩs McAllisterтАЩs
тАШKinship Systems of Sirius TenтАЩ; JenkinsтАЩтАФthatтАЩs B. J. Jenkins, the one who worked with
HoldenтАФтАШSirius Ten Social OrganizationтАЩ; BartheimтАЩs тАШEconomic Life of Sirius TenтАЩ; Robert PattersonтАЩs
тАШBasic Personality Types of the Sirius GroupтАЩ; тАШPreliminary and Supplementary Ethnological Surveys of
the Galactic Advance FleetтАЩтАФthe works.тАЭ
Conan Lang sighed. тАЬO.K.,тАЭ he said. тАЬShoot them out to my place, will you?тАЭ
тАЬCheckтАФbe there before you are. One thing more, Cone.тАЭ
тАЬYes?тАЭ
тАЬBeen reading a splendid eight-volume historical novel of the Twentieth Century. Hot stuff, IтАЩll tell
you. You want me to send it along in case you run out of reading material?тАЭ
тАЬVery funny. See you around.тАЭ
тАЬSo long.тАЭ
Conan Lang switched off the intercom and destroyed the directive. He lapped out his pipe in the
waster and left the office, locking the door behind him. The empty hallway was sterile and impersonal. It
seemed dead at night, somehow, and it was difficult to believe that living, breathing human beings walked
through it all day long. It was like a tunnel to nowhere. He had the odd feeling that there was nothing
around it at all, just space and less than spaceтАФno building, no air, no city. Just a white antiseptic tunnel
to nowhere.
 He shook off the feeling and caught the lift to the roof. The cool night air was crisp and clean and
there was a whisper of a breeze out of the north. A half moon hung in the night, framed by stars. He
looked up at it and wondered how Johnny was getting along up there, and whether perhaps Johnny was
even then looking down on Earth.
Conan Lang climbed into his bullet and set the controls. The little ship rose vertically on her copter
blades for two thousand feet, hovered a moment over the silent city, and then flashed off on her jets into
the west.
Conan Lang sat back in his cushioned seat, looking at the stars, trying not to think, letting the ship
carry him home.


Conan Lang relaxed in his armchair, his eyes closed, an icy bourbon and soda in his hand. The books
he had requestedтАФneat, white, uniform microfilm blowups from the Administration LibraryтАФwere