"George Zebrowski - Stranger Suns" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zebrowski George)

A VOICE FROM THE COLD


The Antarctic valley was a rocky bowl of snow and ice rimmed by mountains. Juan sensed a presence
beneath his boots as he gazed up at the darkening blue sky. It was here, at the center of the fill, about
forty meters down, according to the soundings. How long had it been here, and what had moved it to
speak?

Summet had been prompt in sending both the tons of equipment and crew needed to set up base camp
around the site, and in recruiting two scientists to help with the investigation. The camp, a semicircle of
long huts around the site, had been ready when he and Malachi arrived two hours ago, three weeks to
the day after the discovery, impatient to start work after a week's delay in Miami.

Juan retreated to the snow cab, climbing in next to Malachi, and they listened again to the radio relay of
the signal from the detector. The audio analog of the tachyon stream was beginning to sound like an
intermittent wail.

“Somewhere just below us,” Malachi said.

Juan sat back. “Reminds me of an alarm. Nothing but a prearranged meaning. What do you think Titus
makes of this?"

The Kenyan smiled from inside his parka hood and said, “There's a lot of guessing going on.” He
chuckled. “Makes you happy, doesn't it?"

The orange ball of the sun slipped below the peaks. The still landscape seemed ready for the
six-month-long Antarctic winter night, now only days away.

Malachi said, “Let's set the markers for the diggers."
****

At twilight, the frozen continent seemed to draw its cold from the icy stars wheeling around the south
pole. The semicircle of huts cast purple shadows across the azure-white plain as Juan hurried over to the
snow cab. Downwind from the encampment, vapor from the smoke stacks was a fog bank rolling away
across the snow. The industrial park was a swarm of bright stars rising in polar orbit from behind the
molarlike mountains. He opened the cab door, pulled himself inside, and shut the door.

He pumped the sticky radio switch three times, and finally got the relay of the tachyon wail from Polar
Sat One. The signal was unchanged—something proud crying in an empty auditorium where the house
lights were stars. He felt apprehensive. After ten years of struggle to build the tachyon receiver, this
message from home might turn out to be a cruel joke.

He killed the radio, shoved out through the door, and jogged back to quarters, trying to clear his mind of
irrational suspicions. When he entered the antechamber to the large hut, he felt better. He took off his
parka and went through the inner door.

Lena Dravic, Magnus Rassmussen, and Malachi were drinking coffee at the table in the center of the
bare room, which was divided into bunk alcoves along the two walls. “Still there?” Lena asked.
 “No change.” He sat down and poured himself a steaming cup, admiring her high cheekbones and short,