"Martin H. Greenberg - Space Stations" - читать интересную книгу автора (Greenberg Martin H)

"Yep," Kelsey said. "Government issue, fully stealthed—Hix didn't even
spot it until it hailed."
"Yes, but a Four?" Bob repeated. With the President on his way, the
Secret Service would naturally be stopping by to check things out, and
Fafnirs were the ship of choice for most government agencies.
Problem was, a Fafnir Four only held two people, not nearly enough for a
Presidential advance team. The advance team for the advance team, maybe?
"It's a Four, all right," Kelsey insisted. "I'm in Dock Obs, looking straight
at it."
Reaching to his recorder, Bob flipped the switch from "standby" to "off."
He'd finish the log entry later. "I'll be right up."
The two visitors were already in the entryway reception room by the time
he arrived. The older man, about Bob's own youngish forty-five, was
studying one of the information plaques lining the wall. The other, twenty
years younger, was standing at a sort of stiff at-ease, his eyes shifting
between the door and a nervous-looking Hix. Apparently, he didn't have the
time or the interest for anything as job-unrelated as mere history.
 "Good day, gentlemen," Bob greeted them cheerfully as he stepped into
the room. "I'm Ranger Bob Epstein—Ranger Bob to our visitors. What can I
do for you?"
"We're not visitors, Ranger Epstein," the younger man said, his voice as
stiff and government-issue as his posture. "We're here on official
business—"
"At ease, Drexler," the older man said dryly, straightening up from the
plaque he'd been looking at and giving Bob a slight smile. "I'm Secret
Service Agent Cummings, Ranger Epstein; this is Agent Drexler. We're here
to check things out for the President's flyby."
Something seemed to catch in Bob's throat. "His flyby?" he asked
carefully. "We thought—"
"That he would be visiting the station," Drexler said briskly. "I'm afraid
that's been changed. The organizers realized that a stop would take up too
much time and fuel, so Space Force One will merely be flying past."
"I see," Bob said, trying hard to hide his disappointment. Hix wasn't
nearly so good at it; his face was a map of crushed hopes and expectations.
"May I ask when this decision was made?"
"That's none of your concern—"
"A week ago," Cummings spoke up. "I know this must be something of a
disappointment for you."
Bob took a deep breath. A week. Seven days. They could have told him.
"We'll get over it," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
"I'm sorry we couldn't give you any kind of heads-up," Cummings went
on. "But the President's itinerary isn't the sort of thing you broadcast across
the Solar System."
"I understand," Bob said, glancing over at Hix. The big man still looked
like he wanted to cry, but he was starting to pull himself together again. "It's
not like Space Fort Jefferson is an indispensable part of a historic
Presidential tour."
"Or of history itself, for that matter," Drexler added.
Bob felt his face settle into familiar lines. "That's hardly fair, Agent
Drexler," he said. "Space Fort Jefferson has had a long and hardly