"D. F. Jones - Colossus 01 - Colossus" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jones D. F)

The car silently rolled up the drive to a side entrance. Before the car stopped, the Secret Service man,
with the ease born of long practice, was out, his door shut and his dog-tag pass flashed before the
suspicious gaze of a colleague with whom he probably played pinochle every evening.

Forbin made no move to get out. He knew that until the guard established his identity the car door was
locked. The spokesman of the two external guards grudgingly admitted it was OK to open up, and the
car guard did so. Forbin got out, zipping his jacket under the hard, suspicious eyes of the guards. Inside,
in the inspection room, Forbin was briskly searched by an impersonal, impassive guard with fingers like a
concert pianist's. His briefcase, quickly X-rayed, was passed to his internal escort for safekeeping.
Forbin's own dog tag was carefully checked, as if it might be a clever forgery, by a guard whom Forbin
recognized from at least a dozen earlier meetings—not that that made the slightest difference.

Free at last, Forbin and escort set off down a corridor, to reach at last a pair of swinging doors marked
“Presidential Precinct.” These doors were controlled by another guard sitting in a gas-tight, bulletproof
cubicle. Again passes were shown, pressed against the plate-glass window. Forbin stated the time of his
appointment to the microphone, the guard consulted his checklist.

“OK, Mr. Forbin—you're in.”

Inside the Precinct precautions appeared to be relaxed. But only superficially. In fact more guards, the
cream of the cream, continually patrolled. They were not there to demand passes or search for weapons,
but to be ever-watchful, ready to deal at a split second's notice with anything they might regard as
suspicious. They alone could enter the President's private sanctum without knocking, and would silently
disappear at a nod from him. Without the nod, they stayed. Forbin wondered how a man could stand it
for four years, let alone a second term. Worst of all, there were the staring eyes of the TV cameras,
watching all public rooms and corridors. Forbin would not be surprised to find that there was an
electronic eye behind the toilet- paper holder in the Presidential can.

And practically all this would be unnecessary from now on.

Ushered into the outer office of the sanctum, Forbin was met by the PPA—Principal Private Aide—who
came forward, hand outstretched.

“My dear Forbin, glad to see you.” The PPA glanced at the wall clock. “As always, right on the button.”

They shook hands warmly. Forbin muttered something, but to save his life he could not remember the
aide's name, although they had met often enough. To Forbin he was part of the unreal world, a shadowy
figure, something on the fringe of the real thing that lay a thousand miles away.

The aide pressed a button on his desk and spoke in no particular direction, looking at Forbin as he did
so, smiling.

“Mr. President, Professor Forbin is here.”

The President's voice replied almost at once, floating out in hi-fi from a concealed speaker beside the
double doors. “Have him come in.”

The aide did not reply, but inclined his head doorwards, at the same time moving forward to open one.
Both doors were opened only for ceremonial visits. Forbin nodded his thanks and entered the holy of
holies, the Presidential sanctum. The door shut softly behind him.