Гарри Гаррисон - Skyfall

“Patrick Winter! Is that story true?”

“So help me. And I'll show you her picture in my high school year book with a big red lipstick kiss right over her signature.”

“And she was a black girl?”

“Well — not exactly. I changed that part to capture your attention. She was really a chicana, Mexican-American. All her family were migrant workers. But I thought a minority is a minority to make the point. Fins?”

She was tense for a moment longer, then relaxed and smiled. “You know, you're not so bad for an ofay.”

“You're not so bad yourself for a femlibber who has spent her life keeping the male fascist pigs at bay. Drink to peace — and the success of Prometheus.”

“Why not.” She clicked her glass against his and they drank. “But why not success? Is there any doubt of it?”

“There is always doubt about any flight. The more things that are involved, the more that can go wrong. On the first Apollo to the Moon the LM touched down with two and a half percent fuel left. The Soviets, us, we've both had our problems with the space program. Now we have six of the largest boosters ever made strapped together in one lump. They have to take off together and put Prometheus into low orbit, this payload also happening to be the largest one ever as well. Then when we are in this low orbit, which is what is called a decaying orbit meaning we will drop back to Earth pretty soon if we don't get out of it, we have to fire up Ely's fission engine to take us out to our final orbit. Now this engine, while the theory and smaller models have been ground tested — “

“Let me guess. This engine has never been flown in space before?”

“Bang on. And you ask me if there is any doubt about this flight. But, before I depress you too much, let me say that a lot of people have been working a number of years to bring the doubt factor as close to zero as possible. By the odds you are a lot safer in Prometheus than trying to change a tire on a California freeway. Your life expectancy there is twenty-five seconds if you try to change it on the inside, next to the lane.”

“You've cheered me up. As long as I stay away from California I am safe.”

A tall man in a chef's hat appeared at the open door. “Dinner is served,” he said in thickly accented English.

“What are we having?” Ely called out, but the cook's linguistic knowledge was exhausted and he fled.

“A specially selected menu,” Nadya said. “I talked to the cook and he is very proud of it. Borscht, then herring, followed by beef Stroganoff and noodles. Caviar and vodka too, of course.”

“Russian soul food,” Coretta said. “If I get the chance I am going to show your chef some real American cooking like collard greens and ribs. Let's go, I'm starving.”

COTTENHAM NEW TOWN

For Sir Richard Lonsdale breakfast was always the best part of the day, and breakfast on a morning like this perfection itself. The table had been set by the open french windows; a robin was hopping about the rose stems and blackbirds were busy on the lawn beyond. The air scarcely moved. His Times was by his plate, the two boiled eggs in their cups, the toast still warm on the rack. He poured himself a cup of coffee. He was alone. He loathed speaking to anyone at this time of day. Emily would appear just before he was ready to leave, no earlier. Before opening the paper he sipped more coffee, keeping the moment of peace extended before letting the world interpose again.

Richard Lonsdale was managing director of Pharmaceutical Chemicals Ltd., a job for which he received a substantial salary garnished with a number of agreeable perks. The papers he had taken home were all safely packed into his briefcase, along with a cassette of letters for his secretary to type. New problems would arrive soon enough. He delicately sawed the top from the first egg, shook on salt and pepper, and spooned out a bit. Just right. He looked at the headlines in The Times and the day had begun.

The business news was always depressing so he never looked at that until he was in the car. As usual little good seemed to be happening in the Near East, Spain again, Korea.

GRAVE DANGER PREDICTED FOR PROMETHEUS PROJECT.

That was more like it, a bit of the old scientific Cassandra to keep the blood flowing. What one bunch of scientists invented the next bunch predicted would despoil the world, destroy the environment and give everyone cancer in one loathsome form or another. Unfortunately they were usually right. He finished his breakfast and read the article with some attention. He was just folding the paper when his wife, in her floor-length dressing gown, swept in.

“Good morning, darling,” Emily said, giving him an offhand peck on the forehead. “Don't forget to be in time for dinner tonight because that man from abroad's bringing people around afterwards. You arranged it last week, remember? I'll have some coffee if there's any left. What a most appalling thing! Look at that headline. I know they exaggerate a bit, but this does sound absolutely ghastly. Earthquakes!”

“In Russia, my dear, if the rocket should blow up and if there's a ground fault where the man says there is.”

“But what about all the other things, the death ray and all that?”

“My dear, I assure you that what happens to Prometheus can have no effect in any way upon us at the present time. Now, I must be going.”

The Rolls was waiting outside when he emerged promptly at 8:15. The chauffeur was removing an invisible fleck of dust from the black bonnet and he turned with a smile to hold the door open.

“Lovely day, sir. Vintage day, that's what my old mum used to call it.”

“Your mum was right, Andrew. We haven't had a summer like this since seventy-five.”

Gravel crunched softly under the wheels as the car rolled sedately down the drive. The fact that it was a company car and Andrew a company employee did not diminish the pleasure. With the window open and the Third Program playing a Bach trio, the morning was a good one indeed. So good that Sir Richard never opened his paper to the business pages. They would wait and this day wouldn't. From his home to the plant was about ten miles, an easy fifteen-minute drive, mostly through country lanes. If they had taken the motorway it would have been less than a mile more and would be much faster. They never did. It would be rush and modern times, high speed and telephones all day; the longer the rural peace lasted the better. Stone walls flowed by, then green meadows with grazing Guernseys, a field with sheep. The lambs were big now and losing their early charm. A thickly wooded copse was replaced by farm buildings, then the cobbled high street of the village of Dry Etherton. The shops were just opening and Harry Moor stood in the open door of The Dun Cow lazily working his teeth with a matchstick. He raised his hand as the Rolls went by, the perfect picture of the happy publican, and Sir Richard returned the salute. They did a wonderful steak and kidney pudding at The Dun Cow and it had been too long since he had had one. Sunday perhaps.

Now the road straightened as it climbed onto the limestone ridge above the town. Meadows and farms on all sides, slashed through by the motorway that made the new town possible. Then the town itself. He knew the old village was still down there, at least a part of it, but it could not be seen until you were right on top of it. The towers of the blocks of flats dominated the scene, rows and rows of them like beehives.

Beyond the flats were the low white buildings of the plant. At least these were landscaped and not unattractive. The road swung around the plant and dropped so that the large chemical tanks were outlined against the sky. Painted orange. It had seemed preposterous when he first saw them, but he had discovered since that it was far easier to live with than sooty battleship gray which became more and more depressing as time passed.