"Peter W. Prellwitz - Book 01 - Shards" - читать интересную книгу автора (Prellwitz Peter W)

shield problem on the Mars project."

"Any good?” I knew it would be; Debbie was quick on her feet and my brightest whiz kid, but I wanted
to hear Janet's opinion.

"She's always got the good ideas. My guess is she's figured a way to modulate a number of minor
geothermal generators to replace a single big one. We talked, but she didn't want to go into detail until
she flew it by you and the boss."

"Understandable,” I smiled, “I do sign her paycheck. Okay. What else?"

We discussed the rest of the day's agenda. I told her a few directions I wanted my various project teams
to take, mentioned a few people to contact for updates on outside projects, and asked to see the final
computations for undersea pressure variances on about three dozen polymers the lab crowd was
whipping up. All told, I was project leader for a dozen major undertakings and about forty minor ones.
With nearly two hundred brainiacs reporting to me, and each one needing or wanting a word of
direction, encouragement or caution, it took us awhile to cover everything. Janet gave it to me, then
listened to what I had to say, giving solid feedback often. She had nothing written down, nor wrote
anything. She had a flawless memory to accompany her keenly focused mind and would take care of
everything-and no doubt improve on it.

I was halfway through my second cup of coffee before we finished the daily details and she left to start
the day's work. She closed the door behind her, knowing I always took ten minutes each morning to read
my Bible. My attachment to NATech didn't allow me the pleasures of a public life, but I refused to
surrender my faith. Janet understood and kept people away during my devotion.

I finished reading and put the Book away. I still had about twenty minutes before Chris would be out of
his facilities staff meeting, so I fired up Mike, who had finished his download. Getting into my thinking
mode, I folded my hands in front of my mouth and steepled my forefingers and pinkies, a habit from
high school. Mike pinged.

"Greetings, Mr. Wyeth. Today is Thursday, March 26, 2026. The time is 7:17 AM.” I'd tried various
ways to have him address me, but they always reminded me of those holochannel shills, so I had settled
on a formal greeting.

"Good morning, Mike. I've got a few scenarios to run through with you. Ready?"

"Of course I am,” he said with just a trace of impatience in his tone. It had taken me weeks to program
the perfect blend of irreverence, camaraderie and superiority into his voice, but the final effect was
worth it. He reminded me of an impertinent, headstrong teenager who acted like he was always right,

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and thought you were a bit slow in the head, but liked you anyway. He usually was right, too. I was
thankful that he wasn't real. A real teenager would rub my nose in it. I hadn't programmed that kind of
response into him. I liked a challenge, but I wasn't a masochist.

"Okay, let's play underwater for awhile.” I reviewed my ideas about genetic enhancement and imprint
substitution, comparing them to his conclusions. I then rattled off some transportation, economic and