"James Tiptree Jr -- Happiness is a Warm Spaceship" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tiptree James Jr)

HAPPINESS IS A WARM SPACESHIP
The rainbow floods were doused. The station band had left. Empty of her load of cadets, the
F.S.S. Adastra floated quietly against the stars. The display of First Assignments in the station
rotunda was deserted. The crowd had moved to the dome lounge, from which echoed the
fluting of girls, the braying and cooing of fathers, mothers, uncles, and aunts, punctuated by the
self-conscious baritones of the 99th Space Command class.
Down below, where the Base Central offices functioned as usual, a solitary figure in dress
whites leaned rigidly over the counter of Personnel.
“You’re absolutely certain there’s no mistake?”
“No, it’s all in order, Lieutenant Quent.” The girl who was coding his status tabs smiled.
“First officer, P. B. Ethel P. Rosenkrantz, dock eight-two, departs seventeen thirty—that’s three
hours from now. You have to clear Immunization first, you know.”
Lieutenant Quent opened his mouth, closed it, breathed audibly. He picked up the tabs.
“Thank you.”
As he strode away a tubby man wearing a Gal News badge trotted up to the counter.
“That lad is Admiral Quent’s son. What’d he get, Goldie?”
“I shouldn’t tell you—a peebee.”
“A what? No!”
She nodded, bright-eyed.
“Sweetheart, I’ll name you in my will!” He trotted off.
In the medical office Quent was protesting, “But I’ve had all my standard shots a dozen
times!”
The M.O. studied a data display which stated, among other things, that Quent was a
Terra-norm Human male, height 1.92 m., skin Cauctan, hair Br., eyes Br., distinguishing marks,
None. The data did not mention a big homely jaw and two eyebrows which tended to meet in
a straight line.
“What’s your ship? Ah, the Rosenkrantz. Take off your blouse.”
“What do I need shots for?” persisted Quent.
“Two fungus, one feline mutate, basic allergens,” said the M.O., briskly cracking ampoules.
“Feline what?”
“Other arm, please. Haven’t you met your fellow officers?”
“I just got this rancid assignment twenty minutes ago.”
“Oh. Well, you’ll see. Flex that arm a couple of times. It may swell a bit.”
“What about my fellow officers?” Quent demanded darkly.
The M.O. cracked another ampoule and cocked an eye at the display.
“Aren’t you the son of Admiral Rathborne Whiting Quent?”
“What’s that got to do with my being assigned to a clobbing peebee?”
“Who knows, Lieutenant? Politics are ever with us. I daresay you expected something like
the Sirian, eh?”
“Well, men considerably below me on the ratings did draw the Sirian,” Quent said stiffly.
“Clench and unclench that fist a couple of times. No, unclench it too. Tell me, do you
share your father’s, ah, sentiments about the integration of the Federal Space Force?”
Quent froze. “What the—”
“You’ve been in space a year, Lieutenant. Surely you’ve heard of the Pan Galactic Equality
Covenant? Well, it’s being implemented, starting, with a pilot integration program in the
peebees. Three of your future fellow officers were in here yesterday for their pan-Human
shots.”
Quent uttered a wordless sound.
“You can put on your blouse now,” said the M.O. He leaned back. “Life’s going to be a bit
lumpy for you if you share your father’s prejudices.”