"Pohl, Frederik & Williamson, Jack - Starchild 01-03 - The Starchild Trilogy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pohl Frederick)

Contents
POCKET BOOKS, a Simon Be Schuster division of
GULF & WESTERN CORPORATION
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10020
The Reefs of Space copyright й 1963 by Galaxy Publishing Corporation.
Stii--ihild copyright й 1985 by Frederik Pohl. Hague S'Wr copyright й 1969 by Frederik Pohl.
Published by arrangement with the authors
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books.
ISBN: 0-671-82284-5
First Pocket Books printing December, 1977
3rd printing
Trademarks registered in tie United States and other countries.
Printed in the U.S.A.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Reefs of Space was first published in World of IF Science Fiction.
A much shorter version of Starchild appeared in serial rorm in Galлry Magazine. Copyright, г), 1964, by Galaxy Publishing Corporation.
A shorter version of Rogue Star appeared in serial form in IF Magazine. Copyright, й, 1968, by Galaxy Publishing Corporation.
The three novels that make up The StarchiUl Trilogy were previously published in paperback as three separate volumes by Ballantine Books, Inc.
The Reefs of Space Starchild Rogue Star
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THE REEFS OF SPACE
The major snapped: "Check in, you Risks! What's the matter with you?" His radar horns made him look like SatanЧa sleepy young Satan with an underslung jaw, but dangerous.
"Yes, sir," said Steve Ryeland, peering around. This was ReykjavikЧa new world to Ryeland, who had just come from a maximum-security labor camp inside the rim of the Arctic Circle. Ryeland blinked at the buildings, a thousand feet high, and at the jets and rockets scattered 'across the air field. The little man next to Ryeland sneezed and nudged him. "All right," Ryeland said, and went into the bare little Security lounge. On the teletype that stood in the corner of the roomЧhi the corner of every roomЧ he tapped out:
Information. Steven Ryeland, Risk, AWC-38440, and O. B. Oporto, Risk, XYZ-99942, arrived atЧ
He took the code letters from the identification plate on the machine.
1
ЧStation 3-Radius 4-261, Reykjavik, Iceland. Query. What are personal orders?
In a moment the answer came from the Planning Machine, a single typed letter "R." The Machine had received and understood the message and adjusted its records. The orders would follow.
A Togetherness-girl glanced into the lounge, saw the collars on Ryeland and the little man. Her lips had started to curve in the smile of her trade, but they clamped into a thin line. Risks. She nodded to the major and turned away.
The teletype bell rang, and the Machine tapped out:
Action. Proceed to Train 667, Track 6, Compartment 93.
Ryeland acknowledged the message. The major, leaning over his shoulder, grinned. "A one-way ticket to the Body Bank if you want my guess."
"Yes, sir." Ryeland was not going to get into a discussion. He couldn't win. No Risk could win an argument with a man who wore the major's radar horns.
"Well, get going," the major grumbled. "Oh, and Rye-landЧ"
"Yes, sir?"
The major winked. "Thanks for the chess games. I'll be seeing you, I guess. Parts of you!" He laughed raucously as he strode away. "No side trips, remember," he warned.
"I'll remember," said Steve Ryeland softly, touching the collar he wore.
Oporto sneezed again. "Come on," he grumbled.
"All right What was that number?"
The little dark man grinned. 'Train 667, Track 6, Compartment 93. That's an easy oneЧahchoo! Dafabit," he complained, "I'm catching cold. Let's get out of this draft."
Ryeland led off. They walked unescorted across the pavement to a cab rank and got in. AH around them, travelers, air field workers and others glanced at them, saw the iron collarsЧand at once, on each face a curtain descended. No one spoke to them. Ryeland punched the code number for their destination, and the car raced through broad boulevards to a huge marble structure on the other side of the city.
Over its wide entrance were the carved letters:
THE PLAN OF MAN SUBTRAIN STATION
They made their way through a wide concourse, noisy and crowded; but everyone gave them plenty of room. Ryeland grinned sourly to himself. No side trips! Of course notЧand for the same reason. It wasn't healthy for a man who wore the collar to step out of line. And it wasn't healthy for anyone else to be in his immediate neighborhood if he did.
'Track Six, was it?**
'Train 667, Compartment 93. Can't you remember anything?" Oporto demanded.
"There's Track Six." Ryeland led the way. Track Six was a freight platform. They went down a flight of motionless moving stairs and emerged beside the cradle track of the subtrains.
Since the subtrains spanned the world, there was no clue as to where they were going. From Iceland they could be going to Canada, to Brazil, even to South Africa; the monstrous atomic drills of the Plan had burrowed perfectly straight shafts from everywhere to everywhere. The subtrains rocketed through air-exhausted tunnels, swung between hoops of electrostatic force. Without friction, their speed compared with the velocity of interplanetary travel.