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

And Freeman wearily nodded. "I know," he said. He gestured toward the sunken imitation window
of the Council chamber, a ten-foot square purporting to display the world outside the Complex. "I
know," he said once more. "And you know. And we all know." He gestured tiredly at the window.
"Now, Lee—tell them."

CAPITAL COMPLEX:
IMPERIAL AUDIENCE CHAMBERS.
1040 H., 29 MAY 2113
"Very well," Sam Murin said, tamping shreds of something or other carefully and precisely down into
his big black pipe. An authentically calm man. At times, the most irritating type of human being
available. "We have secured—at any rate, Dall, you have secured—an audience with the emperor, which
will begin in twenty minutes and, for all I know, end in twenty seconds." The pipe was, apparently,
sufficiently loaded. Murin touched one of those new things—an Induction Coal—to it and began
surrounding himself with smoke. "After all, I am the Minister for Information, Dall. I think the least I
deserve is a small bit of information. Such as: What am I doing here? What are you doing here? What in
the name of God-if-any is this whole official audience all about?"
And in all those words he had never raised his voice. It was, Freeman thought, an admirable
performance, of its kind. And Sam wasn't a bad fellow, take him all in all ...
"I think we can get Imperial backing for the Roubins," Freeman said. "And for a small idea of mine."
Murin made a sound rather like hm-m-m. "I know your small ideas. One of them almost cost Prater
Shaw his nomination—not that Prater knows it, and not that it's worth my telling him."
"I hadn't meant to—"
"Doubtless," Murin said comfortably. "And what you did mean to do—well, you did. Playing politics,
as they say—the only game for adults."
Freeman tried to sound relaxed. "Who was it called it that?"
"Eberhardt," Murin said. "Psych professional, and—at the moment—influential. In fact, psych man in
charge of that section for the Interplanetary Flight Center." A cloud of smoke lifted his words to the
domed, undecorated ceiling. "Thinks politics is harmless and ignorable—you know the type. But don't
sidetrack me."
"I wasn't trying to," Freeman said. "What I want to do is attack the whole stupidity of superstition
directly—on 3V, wherever and whenever possible. Ministerial dignity might make a dent here and there;
but of course I need Walther's permission. And yours."
"Mine?" Murin managed to look rosy-cheeked, innocent and sly, all at once. For a man of Murin's
experience, with Murin's oversized features and flat long face, it was distinctly a feat.
"Yours," Freeman said flatly. "You control 3V—all of it that counts, anyhow. Don't give me the sort
of bafflegab you hand the public. If I want to spread a view on 3V, I need you with me."
Murin nodded. "I'm with you," he said.

At the far end of the great plain room, a set of double doors opened, two uniformed men entered and
stood at attention, and, as Freeman and Murin watched stiffly, a reasonably tall man, run a bit to fat, with
a spiky whitish beard, curled white-yellow hair and the tiny pair of half-eyeglasses that were his public
trademark, walked in between the uniforms, glanced round the room, and waved a somewhat languid
hand. The doors banged shut; the men in uniform remained inside the audience chamber, one at each
door, at full attention, and fully armed.
As he came toward the small Imperial seat at the room's center, Walther took a sad look back.
"Very disappointing for them, isn't it?" he said. "I mean: one would think they'd be horribly bored,
guarding one man month after month, with never the slightest hint of an assassin to guard against—" He
reached the chair, slid into it, and waved Freeman and Murin to seats nearby and facing him. "You
wouldn't be planning to kill me, now, would you?" he asked. "Or anything exciting like that? I really do
feel a certain responsibility for the way I've wasted the time of these poor young men—"