"Fred Hoyle - Rockets in Ursa Major" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hoyle Fred)

ONE



I'M not a great one for scientific conferences. This one had been particularly time-wasting, but as the
plane left the - ground the boredom of the last few days vanished. I settled back thankfully to think of
more important problems. `Hello, Dick,' came an American voice. I turned round to see Dave Swan
Vespa, one of the top news reporters for N.B.C. International Television Company.
`How's your research project going?' he inquired. `Too slowly,' I replied grumpily.
`Haven't you fellows got it working yet?' Dave grinned broadly. I grinned back and said nothing.
`See you soon, then.'
He moved off down the gangway. Dave's remark stirred up my irritation at the slow progress on the
International radio transmitter. The idea was a good one. Started two years ago by the International
Space Exploration Committee, it came after thirty years of almost total inactivity. Loss of exploratory
ships in the early 1980s had led to a halt in deep space probes. The only work with space ships
nowadays was in the defense of our planet and its environment. Now new life had been injected into
space research with the building of this gigantic radio transmitter. Messages would be sent deep into
space in the hope that someone somewhere would pick up our signals and transmit an answer back. My
part in all this research was to develop a new form of radar valve. The whole program was being almost
defeated by insufficient money from disinterested governments. Despite this handicap the scientists kept
their research work going as best they could.
When we landed, the usual English weather prevailed, which gave the airport an almost forlorn look in
comparison with the bright sunlight of Los Angeles. I went by tube to the Hempstead Heliport, where I
was just in time to catch the helicopter taxi to Cambridge.
I climbed in beside the driver. He picked up his punch cards, and selecting the Cambridge one pushed it
into the reader. This meant information was fed to the central transport computer which would work out
the best possible route, height and speed for the journey. All this information would then be passed to our
destination so that, once we were in the air, automatic homing devices would take over and whisk us to
our destination without traffic jams or accidents. The police have their own link-up with this computer. It
greatly helps in crime detection, but I feel it is an infringement of individual liberty.
A few seconds later a green light appeared on the control panel. The driver fired up the small rocket
motors and we lifted into the air, rising vertically until picked up by the homing frequency. The great
advantage of the jet against the conventional motor is the smoothness it offers as well as a slight increase
in reliability.
It was a clear night, with the stars getting brighter the higher we went. With a light jolt the helicopter
stopped rising and moved off in a forward direction.
All was quiet at the Cambridge terminal. My watch showed eleven in the morning. I turned it back eight
hours, the time difference between California and London. It was now 3 a.m.
Dawn was starting to come up as I reached the rear gates of St John's College and inserted the
old-fashioned key in the lock. The college authorities still hadn't turned over to the new computerized key
systems. The metal tumblers clicked away, and I pushed the heavy wrought iron gates open. Locking
them behind me, I made my way to my rooms.
When I opened the door, a strong smell of polish and fresh air hit me; my bed maker had obviously had a
spring clean while I'd been away. I walked to my desk, just to make sure that my papers were still there,
and not in the waste basket, but they were safe. My traveling had made me hungry, so I descended to
the kitchenette.
Taking a packet of dehydrated eggs and bacon, I made myself a delicious pan of food. Back m the
living-room, I flicked through the television channels until I found a good old film about the Wild West of