"Mike Resnick - Birthright" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

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тАФOrigin and History of the Sentient Races, Vol. 7.

Vast, thought Nelson, was an understatement.
 Even before the ship entered the atmosphere, the building stood out. Though he had never been to
Earth, he didn't see how it could possibly house any structure larger than the Big C. It stretched some
sixty miles by forty miles, its solid shining steel reflecting the reddish-yellow rays of the sun, a silver
iceberg with well over nine-tenths of its bulk beneath the ground, even though it rose some six thousand
feet above the surface.

Yes, vast was an understatement, but then, the word hadn't yet been created that would do the Big C
justice. The Big C wasn't its real name, of course; but somehow, the Department of Cartography just
didn't conjure up enough grandeur, and so the Pioneers had come up with their own term for it.

Nelson had never seen the Big C before, though he had heard a great deal about it. Any structure that
cost more than ten trillion dollars and housed half a million full-time staffers was bound to receive more
than casual attention from the media. Parts of it were open to anyone with minimal security clearance, but
not too many people bothered taking the tour. For one thing, the planet Caliban was well off the beaten
track in a galaxy that was quite underpopulated in terms of humanity; for another, it would require a
minimum of two days just to walk from one end of one level of the Big C to the other. As for learning
exactly what went on there, it would take considerably more than a lifetime.

Not that each of the Big C's levels were open for walking all that easily. Nelson had complete clearance
and was there by invitation from Landon himself, and it still took him the better part of three hours to be
admitted to the Director's outer office, and another hour before Landon was able to greet him.

He'd never seen the Director in the flesh, but the man's visage was as familiar to the public as was the
complex that he ran with an iron hand. Landon was middle-agedтАФNelson guessed he was in his late
fortiesтАФand had a somewhat unkempt curly brown beard. If the men of his family had ever possessed a
humorous or kindly twinkle in their eye, it had been bred out of the line before Landon was born. Nor
did Landon look haggard or worn, as one might expect of a man with his responsibilities. If there was
one intangible quality about the man, the hard-set line of his jaw, the precise measured movement of his
hands, it was total self-confidence.

тАЬNelson?'тАЩ The Director extended his hand in greeting. тАЬI'm Landon.тАЭ

тАЬPleased to meet you, sir,тАЭ said Nelson. тАЬShall I call you Doctor, or Mister, or ... ?тАЭ

тАЬJust Landon will do,тАЭ said the Director. тАЬCome on into my office and have a seat.тАЭ

Nelson followed him into a room that was almost Spartan in its austerity. He hadn't known quite what to
expect, but this certainly wasn't it: a plain wood desk, three chairs, two intercom devices, a small
bookcase, a couple of rather common pastoral paintings which he suspected were prints, and a tray
containing a pitcher of water and four glasses. The floor was badly scuffed, and made of a type of wood
with which he was unfamiliar.

Landon activated a holo screen and began reading it, glancing at Nelson from time to time.

тАЬBartholomew Nelson,тАЭ he said, half reading, half musing. тАЬSeventeen years of service with the Pioneer
Corps, degrees in geology, chemistry and sociology. Given twenty-four contracts, fulfilled sixteen,