"Allen Steele - Labyrinth of Night" - читать интересную книгу автора (Steele Allen)

digits. Arthur Johnson and Miho Sasaki, the American and Japanese co-leaders of the expedition,
were on standby in the corridor outside C4-20. "Team Lima-Two, do you copy?"
We're here, Shin-ichi. Arthur Johnson's voice was stressed. The door just shut. What's going
on in there?
Kawakami was about to answer when another sound overrode the comlink: not static, not the
usual crackle of electromagnetic interference from the pyramid. Something formed and rhythmic,
as natural and yet unexpected as a coyote howl in the midnight desert. "Listen," Isralilova said.
"Do you hear that!"
"Shh!" Kawakami hissed. Music. Formless and random, even grating, but undeniably music,
lifting from the alien caverns like the sullen riffs of a subway jazz player, as if an avant-garde
musician were lurking somewhere inside the chamber. Weird, yet somehow appropriate . . . and
nonetheless threatening.
Are you getting this? Hal Moberly quietly asked.
Kawakami glanced at the CD-ROM deck above his console. "We're recording it, yes, Hal,"
he replied. "Stand by. Wait for our next signal."
The team's senior scientist had no doubt what the sounds signified. In some way, this was the
Labyrinth's final test. Yet this was something entirely new. Before now, everything beneath
Pyramid C-4 had related to equations and common sense. How can anyone ask a piece of music,
alien or otherwise, to explain itself as an obvious statement?
Kawakami looked at Verduin. The other scientist met his gaze, glanced back at his console,
then silently shook his head. Instinctively, they both knew the hard truth, although neither one of
them had the courage to openly speak it.
Hal Moberly was not going to emerge from C4-20 alive. And there wasn't a damned thing
they could do about it . . .


Waterville, New Hampshire: August 31, 1730 EST, 2029
The Blackhawk was an older helicopter, on the verge of retirement but still in use by the
government for low-profile odd jobs. Its military markings had been removed, so it was
appropriate for flying Dick Jessup from central Massachusetts to Waterville Valley. When Jessup
had asked why he simply could not drive to the concert site, the copter pilot had grinned. "I don't
think you want to do that, sir," Lieutenant Orr had replied.
Now, after a one-hour jaunt from Worcester Municipal Airport to the resort town, Jessup
could see why. Traffic was backed up for miles on the highways leading into Waterville Valley,
tucked in the foothills of the White Mountains. An estimated crowd of 70,000 music-lovers
surrounded the huge outdoor stage of the New England Bluegrass and Jazz Festival. Orr circled
the vast sprawl of people, tents, and cars before setting the Blackhawk down on a packed-earth
landing pad inside the fenced backstage area. A couple of roadies dashed out to meet Jessup as he
climbed out, then backed off, confused that the helicopter's lone passenger was not a performer.
One of them made a call on his wristphone and a few minutes later the stage manager stalked
over, convinced that Jessup was a high-rolling gate-crasher. It took a few minutes for Jessup to
settle the dispute; it was not until the stage manager made a phone call to the promoter and
verified that Jessup was there as an invited guest that he calmed down. Jessup was relieved; he
did not want to produce his government I.D., which would have ended the dispute more quickly
but also would have raised some uncomfortable questions.
On the other hand, the stage manager seemed irritated that he couldn't have Jessup arrested
by the security guards. "Just get that bird of yours out of here," he snapped, pointing at the
Blackhawk. "We've still got people flying into this place."
"Okay," Jessup replied. "Can you tell me where Ben Cassidy is?"
"He's onstage. You can talk to him when his set is over. Now get your chopper out of here."