"Asimov, Isaac - 2. Foundation and Empire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Asimov Isaac)

He touched the wall of the study, then stared at his fingertips. "You have this
on Siwenna?"
Barr smiled thinly. "Not elsewhere, I believe. I keep this in repair myself as
well as I can. I must apologize for your wait at the door. The automatic device
registers the presence of a visitor but will no longer open the door."
"Your repairs fall short?" The general's voice was faintly mocking.
"Parts are no longer available. If you will sit, sir. You drink tea?"
"On Siwenna? My good sir, it is socially impossible not to drink it here."
The old patrician retreated noiselessly with a slow bow that was part of the
ceremonious legacy left by the aristocracy of the last century's better days.
Riose looked after his host's departing figure, and his studied urbanity grew a
bit uncertain at the edges. His education had been purely military; his
experience likewise. He had, as the clichй‚ has it, faced death many times; but
always death of a very familiar and tangible nature, Consequently, there is no
inconsistency in the fact that the idolized lion of the Twentieth Fleet felt
chilled in the suddenly musty atmosphere of an ancient room.
The general recognized the small black-ivroid boxes that lined the shelves to be
books. Their titles were unfamiliar. He guessed that the large structure at one
end of the room was the receiver that transmuted the books into sight-and-sound
on demand. He had never seen one in operation; but he had heard of them.
Once he had been told that long before, during the golden ages when the Empire
had been co-extensive with the entire Galaxy, nine houses out of every ten had
such receivers – and such rows of books.
But there were borders to watch now; books were for old men. And half the
stories told about the old days were mythical anyway. More than half.
The tea arrived, and Riose seated himself. Ducem Barr lifted his cup. "To your
honor."
"Thank you. To yours."
Ducem Barr said deliberately, "You are said to be young. Thirty-five?"
"Near enough. Thirty-four."
"In that case," said Barr, with soft emphasis, "I could not begin better than by
informing you regretfully that I am not in the possession of love charms,
potions, or philtres. Nor am I in the least capable of influencing the favors of
any young lady as may appeal to you."
"I have no need of artificial aids in that respect, sir." The complacency
undeniably present in the general's voice was stirred with amusement. "Do you
receive many requests for such commodities?"
"Enough. Unfortunately, an uninformed public tends to confuse scholarship with
magicianry, and love life seems to be that factor which requires the largest
quantity of magical tinkering."
"And so would seem most natural. But I differ. I connect scholarship with
nothing but the means of answering difficult questions."
The Siwennian considered somberly, "You may be as wrong as they!"
"That may turn out or not." The young general set down his cup in its flaring
sheath and it refilled. He dropped the offered flavor-capsule into it with a
small splash. "Tell me then, patrician, who are the magicians? The real ones."
Barr seemed startled at a title long-unused. He said, "There are no magicians."
"But people speak of them. Siwenna crawls with the tales of them. There are
cults being built about them. There is some strange connection between it and
those groups among your countrymen who dream and drivel of ancient days and what