"Forstchen,.William.R.-.Into.The.Sea.Of.Stars" - читать интересную книгу автора (Forstchen William R)

CHAPTER 1


"Mr. Hansin, are you with us, or are you again pondering the earthly delights awaiting you in the women's dormitory?" In disgust Ian Lacklin collapsed into his chair and awaited the response.
"Ah, oh yes, I fully agree with you, Dr. Lacklin. Of course, you're absolutely right."
An undercurrent of snickers ran through the stuffy, overcrowded room. Ian stared them down and was greeted with forced looks of attentiveness.
Idiots. Graduate students, indeed. Every semester he was lectured by the dean that this year's was the best crop yet, survivors of a lengthy winnowing process. The dean made Kutzburg sound like Nouveau Harvard instead of the Provincial University's worst campus, one that catered to ozone-head athletes and near-morons who had failed entry in every other system and, therefore, would become educators.
"Then, Mr. Hansin, perhaps you could enlighten us all as to the ramifications of the Geosync Positions Communications Treaty of 2031 and how it was later cited by Beaulieu as the underlying cause of the Second South American Crisis of 2038."
"Say, Dr. Lacklin, was that in our readings?"
"By God, man, yes!" In exasperation Ian rose up to his full five-and-a-half-foot height and pointed a stubby finger at Hansin.
"Can't you see how important this was? With the crowding of the geosync points in the early part of the twenty-first century came the increasing agitation by the equatorial countries for control not only of the atmosphere above them but of the geosync positions, as well. Out of that came the abortive attempt to take Powersat 23 from the Sino-Japanese Energy Consortium, which in turn placed in jeopardy the Skyhook construction project in Malaysia. Can't you see how important that is to your life today?"
Blank stares greeted him. An ocean of blank stares.
"This room is a vacuum!" Ian shouted, waving his short, pudgy arms. "I know this course is required, I know you were all dragged in here kicking and screaming, but, by God, it's required for a reason.
"But, of course, you cretins already know that when you are history teachers yourselves, instructions in throwing a ball through a hoop will be far more important than this." Ian realized that his sarcasm was lost on that crowd, but with a note of pleading in his voice he valiantly tried to push ahead. "Don't you realize that you should also be able to teach your students about history, as well? Can't you see that?"
"Sure, Doc. We see that, but it's Friday, and the shuttle tram's leaving for Bostem in half an hour."
"Ah, a visit to the fleshpots of Bostem is more important to you than this, is that it, Mr. Hansin? And you, too, Mr. Roy?"
Silence.
"Well, Mr. Roy, don't sit there slack-jawed and drooling, answer me."
"Doc, that's an interesting point, and most difficult to answer."
lan's cherubic face turned crimson. "Idiots, get out, just get out of here." His voice cracked on a high note, as it always did when he got excited. "Just get out!"
The mindless herd of thirty-odd students exploded into action and stampeded past him for the doorway.
"Wait, wait a minute, your reading assignment for next week..." But they were already gone, the corridor echoing with the sounds of their cattlelike trampling and muted comments about Lacklin's heritage and physiological shortcomings.
Another brilliant lecture wasted. Mumbling obscure Old American obscenities, he returned to his desk and started to shuffle a pile of notes into his briefcase. Eighteen years! Eighteen years of trying to give to an uncaring mob a brief glimpse of the joys to be found in history. There was an occasional pearl to be found, but for most of them, he was "Lackless Lacklin," master of "Enrichment Requirement Number 3: Sputnik to Armageddon— a History of the First Space Era."
"Excuse me, Dr. Lacklin."
"Yes, yes, what is it?" He looked up from his desk. "What is it, Shelley, why weren't you sucked into the vortex of that mob?"
"You were about to give an assignment?"
He looked at her appraisingly, the pearl of the semester, a gangly six-foot, twenty-one-year old; suffering from a bad case of acne and allegedly responsible to him as a research assistant—assigned by the dean, no doubt, as a practical joke. As a graduate student she was adequate, but she constantly hung around his office looking for sophomoric debates on the real meaning of Lock's theories of space sociology or other such foolishness.
"Do we have an assignment in Beaulieu's book?" she asked eagerly.
"No doubt, you've already finished it?"
"Of course, but I wanted to be ready for Monday's class. I can review it over the weekend."
"Don't worry about it now, why don't you just go along with the others."
"Here, let me help you back to the office with that." Before he could object, Shelley picked up the model of the Schuder space colony and started for the door.
"Damn it, look out!"
But it was too late. She brushed against the doorway, knocking the antennae structure off.
"Oh, Dr. Lacklin, I'm sorry, I—"
"Never mind, Miss Walker, just take it down to the office."
With a sigh of despair he picked up the broken plastic and followed after her. It had taken him the better part of a weekend to construct the three-foot-long model of a colony that had once been home to fifty thousand people.
As they made their way down the dimly lit corridors to lan's subterranean office, Shelley chattered on about a paper she was writing for The Journal of Space Antiquities, and Dr. Lacklin occasionally grunted noncommittally, but his thoughts were already light-years away.
A new copy of the journal had just come that morning, with a lengthy article by Beaulieu concerning the recently discovered ruins of the colony on Mars. The site was one of the biggest finds of the decade and was revealing a wealth of artifacts on early twenty-first-century technology. The article would provide an excellent weekend's entertainment away from students, the school, the world— in fact, an escape from all reality.
Ian was so wrapped in happy thoughts of escape that he didn't notice Shelley had stopped, and Ian crashed right into her. The Schuder model tumbled to the floor and fractured into fragments that went spinning out in every direction.
"Uh-oh," Shelley whispered.
"Damn it, Shelley, why can't you... ?" Ian looked past her and saw the towering figure standing by the doorway to his office.
"It's Chancellor Cushman," Shelley whispered fearfully.
The figure started to move toward them. "Dr. Lacklin, my good man," the Chancellor's voice boomed like a cannon report, "just the person I was looking for."
Striding forward, hand outstretched, he stepped on broken fragments of the model, grinding them to powder. Grabbing Ian's shoulder, the Chancellor smiled his sinister toothy grin, which more often than not was the opening signal for a budget cut or an increase in one's teaching load.
He turned to Shelley with that same grin, but there was a barely concealed disdain about him as he was forced to address a student. "My charming young miss, would you be so kind as to excuse the good doctor and me."
Before the Chancellor had finished speaking, Shelley was backing away, mumbling something about having to wash her hair; she was gone, leaving Ian to his fate.