"Robert F. Young - Invitation to the Waltz" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

Robert Young's latest novel, THE LAST YGGDRASIL, will be published shortly by Del Rey
Books. His new story concerns a 25th century spacecraft pilot named D'etoile who is on galactic
rim patrol when he comes across an old space station that to his eyes has the aspect of a medieval
castle, perhaps a haunted one....


Invitation to the Waltz
BY
ROBERT F. YOUNG
The stray space station did not belong in D'etoile's day and age, nor did it belong in the rim regions of
the galactic lens. Yet there it was, revolving slowly and smoothly, less than a hundred kilometers off the
patrol craft's port bow.
To D'etoile's twenty-fifth century eyes it had the analogous aspect of a medieval castle cast adrift in
time. He was on galactic rim patrol, on the lookout for tsempi — C-fluctuations that sometimes gave
birth to severe photon storms against which his home-world could not defend itself without adequate
forewarning. Here, the stars had thinned out to the point of near extinction; here, seemingly at his elbow,
yawned the abyss of metagalactic space, while billions of light-years out, pale blurs in the vast blackness,
lay a trio of extragalactic nebulae.
Although backgrounded by the dazzling star-clouds of the galactic hub, the station was so remote
from the nearest sun as to be a star in its own right. The patrol craft's instruments indicated that it was
moving rimward, either of its own volition or still propelled by the hypothetical thrust, or series of thrusts,
that had de-orbited it and set it on a starless course that had enabled it to retain its new-found
independence. As for its provenance, it had "matrix world" written all over it, which meant it must have
been traveling rimward for centuries. D'etoile was not surprised when it did not respond to his radioed
challenge, but he was annoyed. Duty demanded that he board it and check it out, and he did not want to.
Something about it — its bizarre design, perhaps — repelled him.
It grew rapidly in the viewscreen as he closed in. Space stations were considered unnecessary
extravagances these days, but such had not always been the case. Before the development of the
trans-Sweike Drive made stellar colonization practicable, the matrix-world — Earth — had built and
orbited thousand of such vehicles. Primitive to begin with, they had become increasingly elaborate and
sophisticated as space technology graduated from Kindergarten into First Grade. Finally, private
enterprise had got into the act, and "starsinos," "astrels," "catellites," and "starbars" had begun appearing
in the sky. Vast, cumbersome affairs to modern eyes — metallic castles with little to redeem them save
their celestial ambience.
When the station completely filled the view screen, D'etoile programmed the A.P. to locate the boat
bay, home in on it and dock. Then he put on his suit. Before closing the equipment locker, he got out a
lock-disengager and pocketed it. He doubted very much that there would be anyone to let him in.
He armed himself with a medium-range raze pistol, but this was standard procedure.
By this time the station was so close he could see the myriad pockmarks that successive meteor
swarms had made in its black hull. It had a foreboding aspect, and there was no sign of a boat bay — at
least none that he could see. Maybe he should reprogram the A.P. to back off. But his fears proved
groundless. The station turned out to have an old-type Jenkinsonian sphincter-dock, into which the A.P.
had no difficulty fitting the patrol craft's prow. After the boarding light came on, D'etoile went through the
inner- and outer-hatch locks and emerged in the bay. With the aid of the disengager, he passed through
the station's outer- and inner-locks with similar ease and stepped into the station proper. He found
himself standing in a crimson-carpeted corridor filled with reddish light. From the distance came the
sound of music.

The reddish light had no discernible source and appeared to emanate from the walls and ceiling,
which were the same color as the carpet. But D'etoile knew better. Psychohistory dwelled at