"Laurence M. Janifer - Count Down" - читать интересную книгу автора (Janifer Laurence M)

colonization or exploration. Yank the human race right back to Earth. If you want to step out in favor of
that—"
"Moonbase," Sam Murin said. "Dall, why not get the rocket to Moonbase and start it to Thoth from
there? It'd get rid of the numbers problem, wouldn't it?"
"It would, Sam," Freeman said, "except for another numbers problem. It would be approximately
three times as expensive—and despite what the Dichtung says every time a new budget item for Rocket
and Interplanetary Flight Group comes along, there just isn't that, kind of available credit for the asking."
Murin nodded very slowly. "Nor likely to be," he said. "According to research and interview groups,
and spot eavesdrop checks, the public has had about as much spending for `cold, empty, airless, useless
space'—I quote a recent speech by one of our Opposition friends—as they're going to stand.
Nevertheless, contingency funds—"
"Are useful for many things, Sam," Freeman said. "But not for anything this big. Contingency funding
is like petty cash; immensely useful, but you can't draw on it indefinitely, or to any large extent."
Prater looked up suddenly—struck, obviously, by what Prater considered an idea. "But the
Opposition . . . I mean, if they did get in, if we went ahead and the government did fall on this issue—if
they got in, I mean—well, they wouldn't stay in office forever, you know."
"They wouldn't have to, to do the damage we're talking about." There were times, Freeman reflected,
when he seemed to be teaching a primary school. Remotely, he imagined that everyone, probably, felt the
same now and again. Still . . . "Give them two years—and I think they'd have two years without much
trouble—and we'd have to start over again from scratch. No probe program, no proto-colony, nothing in
this area at all would last two years without real support. And—we'd have to start over again with the
people, too, Prater." He looked over at Murin. An authentically calm man, Freeman thought, and
wondered whether or not he envied the quality.
"Two years is a long time," Murin agreed, on cue. "People forget. They have to be educated, or
reminded . . . well, find your own word for it . . . all over again. They have to be re-convinced. And God,
if any, has no more idea than I do whether, after two years, re-convincing would be in the least possible.
It isn't the sort of question you can expect Information to answer—we deal only in very immediate
futures."
"Well, then—" Harcourt began heavily.
"Well, then, we have to send the Roubins," Freeman cut in. "Except that we can't—which is where
this talk began."
Harcourt nodded. Judicious. Thinking it over. "With—it occurs to me—your fond acquaintance
Richard Hamsun in command. Dall, it irritates me to have to work for that man's success—"
"It isn't his success, and there's nothing really irritating about him," Freeman said as mildly as he knew
how. "He's the best available—and he knows it—which is why he was invited to the Year Day Gala. I
took some care to introduce myself to him then, and to make as sure as I could that he remembered me.
Admittedly, he has an unfortunate habit of saying what he thinks . . . but he is the best available, and the
success won't be his, or mine, or yours. The success will belong to the human race. We need to spread
out—"
"I remember Hamsun's speech," Harcourt snapped. "It hadn't occurred to me that you'd had one of
your staff write it—or written it yourself."
"I didn't." Quite tiring, Freeman told himself—exhausting, in fact. Also, necessary. "It's just that
the proposition is sufficiently obvious to occur to more than one person."
"Perfectly obvious," Harcourt said.
"And every survey—am I right, Sam?—makes it more and more evident we're stalled. The Roubins
has to leave within a six-hour period. We have that much leeway—but all of it falls on Friday. Friday,
June 13th, in the year 2113. Which puts a curse on the ship—for all I know, on Thoth, on Hamsun, and
on the entire program; I wouldn't put anything at all past the quasi-rational hysteria a good superstition
can work up. The people won't stand for the curse." "Damn it," Harcourt exploded, "it's perfectly
ridiculous!"