"James P. Hogan - Craddle of Saturn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hogan James P)

impression of sagging slightly when in gravity. Here, it was more evenly distributed, making him
appear sprightlier, if maybe a little bloated, compared to normal.

"Great show, Lan!" he greeted. "That should make the high slots this evening. Looks like the baby
performed just fine."

"Just as much your show. It's your baby." Keene pushed himself forward to make room as Ricardo and
Joe crowded in at the end of the chamber behind. "And how goes it with our friends?" He meant the
branches of officialdom connected with the APU test.

Fassner pulled a face, grinning simultaneously. "Mad as hell. Corpus Christi has got lawyers from
Washington on the line now."

"Already?"

"Probably being aimed by wrathful agency heads. Marvin says they're trying to come up with some
kind of permission or approval that we should have obtained first."

It had been expected, even though nothing had violated any explicit prohibition. Thanks mainly to
the reticence of the Russians, Southeast Asians, and the Chinese, the world had not actually
banned the launching of nuclear technology into orbit. It was just that nobody had thought that
any organization outside government would contemplate doing it, while everyone on the inside was
too vulnerable to pressure groups and public opinion to want to get involved. Now the regulatory
agencies would be vying with each other to placate the eco lobbies by showing who had the most
teeth.

"Anyhow, you've done your part," Fassner said. "The Corpus Christi office can deal with
Washington. That's what it's got a legal department for." He clapped Keene lightly on the shoulder
and used a handrail to haul himself past to say a few words to the other two. "Hey, Ric, can't you
do something about that grin? You're dazzling my eyes here."

Ricardo's smile only widened further. "Didn't we make a meal out of those turkeys, eh?"

"Joe, you were right on, all the way. So how did the modified RTs handle? Pretty good, I guess."

"Like a dream, Warren, like a dream. . . ."



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Keene stowed the last of his gear in an end locker and signed that the technician had retrieved
the diagnostic recording chip from his suit. Feeling less restricted now in shirtsleeves and
fatigue pants, he exited through a pressure door and transverse shaft outside Number Two Pump
Compartment to enter the "Yellow" end of the Hub Main Longitudinal Corridor—the walls in different
sections of Space Dock were color coded to help newcomers orientate. More well-wishers, some in
workshirts and jeans, others in coveralls, one in a pressure suit, were waiting to add their
congratulations as he passed through. He came to "Broadway"—a confusion of shafts and split levels
leading away seemingly in all directions, where the hub and the booms connecting the two ends of