"Pohl, Frederik - Father Of The Stars" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pohl Frederick)

Father of the Stars


I

NORMAN MARCHAND sat in the wings of the ballroomТs small stage, on a leather hassock someone had found for him. There were 1,500 people outside in the ballroom, waiting to do him honor.
Marchand remembered the ballroom very well. He had once owned it. Forty . . . no, it wasnТt forty. Not even fifty. Sixty years ago it had been, sixty and more years ago that he and Joyce had danced in that ballroom. Then the hotel was the newest on Earth, and he was the newly married son of the man who had built it, and the party was the reception for his wedding to Joyce. Of course, none of these people would know about that. But Marchand remembered
Oh, Joyce, my very dear! But she had been dead a long time now.
It was a noisy crowd. He peered out through the wings and could see the head table filling up. There was the Vice-President of the United States shaking hands with the Governor of Ontario as though, for the moment, they had forgotten they were of different parties. There was Linfox, from the Institute, obligingly helping a chimpanzee into the chair next to what, judging by the microphones ranked before it, would probably be MarchandТs own. Linfox seemed a little ill at ease with the chimp. The chimpanzee had no doubt been smithed, but the imposition of human intelligence did not lengthen its apeТs legs.
Then Dan Fleury appeared, up the steps from the floor of the ballroom where the rest of the 1,500 diners were taking their places.
Fleury didnТt look well at all, Marchand thoughtЧnot without a small touch of satisfaction, since Fleury was fifteen years younger than himself. Still, Marchand wasnТt jealous. Not even of the young bellhop who had brought him the hassock, twenty years old at the most and built like a fullback. One life was enough for a man to live.
Especially when you had accomplished the dream you had set out to bring to fruition. Or almost.
Of course, it had cost him everything his father left. But what else was money for?
УItТs time to go in, sir. May I help you!Ф It was the young fullback nearly bursting his bellhopТs uniform with the huge, hard muscles of youth. He was very solicitous. One of the nice things about having this testimonial dinner in a Marchand hotel was that the staff was as deferential to him as though he still owned the place. Probably that was why the committee had picked it, Marchand ruminated, quaint and old-fashioned as the hotel must seem now. Though at one timeЧ He recollected himself. УIТm sorry, young man. I wasЧwoolgathering. Thank you.Ф
He stood up, slowly but not very painfully, considering that it had been a long day. As the fullback walked him onto the stage, the applause was enough to drive down the automatic volume control on his hearing aid.
For that reason he missed the first words from Dan Fleury. No doubt they were complimentary. Very carefully he lowered himself into his chair, and as the clapping eased off, he was able to begin to hear the words.
Dan Fleury was still a tall man, built like a barrel, with bushy eyebrows and a huge mane of hair. He had helped MarchandТs mad project for thrusting Man into space from its very beginnings. He said as much now. УManТs grandest dream!Ф he roared. УThe conquering of the stars themselves! And here is the one man who taught us how to dream it, Norman Marchand!Ф
Marchand bowed to the storm of applause.
Again his hearing aid saved his ears and cost him the next few words: УЧand now that we are on the threshold of success,Ф Fleury was booming, Уit is altogether fitting that we should gather here tonight . . . to join in fellowship and in the expression of that grand hope . . . to rededicate ourselves to its fulfillment . . . and to pay our respects and give of our love to the man who first showed us what dream to have!Ф
While the AVC registered the power of Dan FleuryТs oratory, Marchand smiled out on the foggy sea of faces. It was, he thought, almost cruel of Fleury to put it like that. The threshold of success indeed! How many years now had they waited on it patiently?Чand the door still locked in their faces. Of course, he thought wryly, they must have calculated that the testimonial dinner would have to be held soon unless they wanted a cadaver for a guest. But still . . . He
turned painfully and looked at Fleury, half perplexed. There was something in his tone. Was thereЧCould there beЧ There could not, he told himself firmly. There was no news, no
breakthrough, no report from one of the wandering ships, no dream come true at last. He would have been the first to know. Not for anything would they have kept a thing like that from him. And he did not know that thing.
УЧand now,Ф Fleury was saying, УI wonТt keep you from your dinners. There will be many a long, strong speech to help your digestions afterward, I promise you! But now letТs eat!Ф
Laughter. Applause. A buzz and clash of forks.
The injunction to eat did not, of course, include Norman Marchand. He sat with his hands in his lap, watching them dig in, smiling and feeling just a touch deprived, with the wry regret of the very old. He didnТt envy the young people anything really, he told himself. Not their health, their youth, or their life expectancy. But he envied them the bowls of ice.
He tried to pretend he enjoyed his wine and the huge pink shrimp in crackers and milk. According to Asa Czerny, who ought to know since he had kept Marchand alive this long, he had a clear choice. He could eat whatever he chose, or he could stay alive. For a while. And ever since Czerny had been good enough, or despairing enough, to give him a maximum date for his life expectancy, Marchand had in idle moments tried to calculate just how much of those remaining months he was willing to give up for one really good meal. He rather believed that when Czerny looked up at him after the weekly medical checkup and said that only days were left, that he would take those last days and trade them in for a sauerbraten with potato pancakes and sweet-sour red cabbage on the side. But that time was not yet. With any kind of luck he still had a month. Perhaps as much as two.
УI beg yourЧpardon,Ф he said, half-turning to the chimpanzee. Even smithed, the animal spoke so poorly that Marchand had not at first known that he was being addressed.
He should not have turned.
His wrist had lost its suppleness; the spoon in his hand tilted; the soggy crackers fell. He made the mistake of trying to move his knee out of the wayЧit was bad enough to be old; he did not want to be sloppyЧand he moved too quickly.
The chair was at the very edge of the little platform. He felt himself going over.
Ninety-six is too old to be falling on your head, he thought; if I
was going to do this sort of thing, I might just as well have eaten some of those shrimp. . . . But he did not kill himself.
He only knocked himself unconscious. And not for very long at that, because he began to wake up while they were still carrying him back to his dressing room behind the stage.

Once upon a time, Norman Marchand had given his life to a hope.
Rich, intelligent, married to a girl of beauty and tenderness, he had taken everything he owned and given it to the Institute for Colonizing Extra-Solar Planets. He had, to begin with, given away several million dollars.
That was the whole of the personal fortune his father had left him, and it was nowhere near enough to do the job. It was only a catalyst. He had used it to hire publicity men, fund raisers, investment counselors, foundation managers. He had spent it on documentary ifims and on TV commercials. With it he had financed cocktail parties for United States Senators, and prize contests for the nationТs sixth grades, and he had done what he set out to do.
He had raised money. A very great deal of money.
He had taken all the money he had begged and teased out of the pockets of the world and used it to finance the building of twenty-six great ships, each the size of a dozen ocean liners, and he had cast them into space like a farmer sowing wheat upon the wind.
I tried, he whispered to himself, returning from the darkest place he had ever seen. I wanted to see Man reach out and touch a new home. . . and I wanted to be the one to guide him there. . .
And someone was saying: УЧhe knew about it, did he? But we were trying to keep it quietЧФ Someone else told the first person to shut his mouth. Marchand opened his eyes.
Czerny was there, unsmiling. He saw that Marchand was conscious. УYouТre all right,Ф he said, and Marchand knew that it was true, since Czerny was scowling angrily at him. If the news had been bad, he would have smiledЧ УNo, you donТt!Ф cried Czerny, catching him by the shoulder. УYou stay right there. YouТre going home to bed.Ф
УBut you said I was all right.Ф
УI meant you were still breathing. DonТt push it, Norm.Ф
Marchand protested, УBut the dinnerЧI ought to be thereЧФ
Asa Czerny had cared for Marchand for thirty years. They had gone fishing together, and once or twice they had gotten drunk. Czerny would not have refused for nothing. He only shook his head.
Marchand slumped back. Behind Czemy the chimpanzee was squatting silently on the edge of a chair, watching. HeТs worried,
Marchand thought. Worried because he feels itТs his fault, what happened to me. The thought gave him enough strength to say: УStupid of me to fall like that, Mr.Ч IТm sorry.Ф
Czerny supplied the introduction. УThis is Duane Ferguson, Norman. He was supernumerary on the Copernicus. Smithed. HeТs attending the dinner in costume, as it were.Ф The chimpanzee nodded but did not speak. He was watching that silver-tongued orator, Dan Fleury, who seemed upset. УWhere is that ambulance?Ф demanded Czerny, with a doctorТs impatience with interns, and the fullback in bellhopТs uniform hurried silently away to find out.
The chimpanzee made a barking sound, clearing his throat. УGhwaddФЧhe saidЧmore or less: the German ich sound followed by the word Уwhat.Ф УGhwadd did jou mee-an aboud evdial, Midda Vleury?Ф