Гарри Гаррисон - Skyfall

“That is not the kind of trouble to worry about at this time. This is the trouble,” he said, tapping his worn leather briefcase. “The facts are correct, they can be checked. It is all here.”

Glushko looked at his watch, then drummed his fingers on his leg. “In that case,” he said, “they had better hurry.”

Halfway around the world, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, it was still early evening. Not quite dinner time, but late enough. All the offices in the East were closed, the labs shut, the college professors gone home. Professor Weisman sat in his scruffy office watching the shadows grow longer, listening to the ring-ring of an unanswered phone in his ear. Not for the first time either. He carefully put the receiver back, steepled his fingers on the desk before him, and wondered what to do next.

The few people he knew who might have been able to help him had not answered their phones. Or some moronic answering device had beeped at him and told him to record his message. He did not think there was time for that. He was still not sure how to go about passing on the vital information he had, nor was he exactly sure whom he should pass it on to. Of course the people involved with the Prometheus Project would want to know, but he had gotten only busy signals from both numbers given him by the information operator. He rarely listened to the radio and had no television set, so he did not know of the news story that was just breaking about the disaster in England. He would have been interested to hear it, but it would not affect what he had to do.

Washington, that was it, he would just have to go to Washington. Normally he hated to travel, but always said that getting out of the Fraunhoffer Institute and out of Germany and staying one step ahead of the Nazis all the way across Europe had been enough traveling for a lifetime. Life at the University of Pennsylvania was very easy, very calm, and he preferred it that way. But now his peace would have to be broken for a bit. He would have to go to Washington. Even as he decided this he began carefully placing a thick sheaf of notes into a briefcase as old and disreputable as the one Academician Moshkin was clutching on his knees in the Kremlin at this very moment.

There were footsteps in the corridor outside and the rap of knuckles on the frosted glass of his office door. Weisman did not respond because he was concentrating so he did not hear the sounds. Only when the door swung open did he look up. A bearded face poked in.

“Say, Sam, isn't that something. Did you hear the broadcast about the town in England?”

“Ahn, Danny, come in, I want to ask you something.”

“You didn't hear, then. One of the boosters from Prometheus took out an entire city, they don't know how many dead, worse than an atom bomb attack…”

“Danny, do you know how to get to Washington, D.C.?”

Danny started to gape, then changed his mind. He had taught in the university long enough to realize that his associates on the staff weren't really fruitcakes, just individualists with different powers of concentration and different interests. Sam Weisman had a world-wide reputation and a Nobel Prize. And he didn't care about blown-up cities nor did he know how to get to Washington, which was maybe all of a hundred miles away. Danny shrugged and forgot Cottenham New Town for the moment.

“You can drive, you can take the bus, you can take the train.”

“I cannot stand motor vehicles.” Weisman frowned in thought, then took out an old-fashioned clasp purse and looked inside. “Four dollars, I don't think that will be enough.”

“Not really. What do you want to do in Washington?”

Weisman ignored the question, his mind involved in the logistics of the journey. “The banks are closed. But you can cash a check for me, can't you Danny. Do you think five hundred dollars will be enough?”

“Five bills is more than enough but I don't always carry quite that much on me.” He looked in his wallet. “You're in luck, I just cashed my pay check. I'll give you two hundred bucks, pay me when you get back. Your credit is good.”

Weisman pulled on his jacket. “Is there more than one train station in Philadelphia?”

“Don't worry, I'll drop you off. You buy a ticket for D.C. and try and get on a Metroliner because the old rolling stock will give your hemorrhoids hemorrhoids inside five miles.”

“Very kind.” He put on his hat. “Would you know if the Smithsonian Institute is hard to find? I have a friend there.”

“I am going to control myself and not ask you why you are going there in the middle of the night when it is closed. I'm afraid you'd tell me. Grab a hack at Union Station when you get in and tell him Smithsonian. Maybe the night watchman will know where your friend is. All I can do is wish you good luck.”

Professor Weisman sat calmly, his old briefcase on his lap, as they drove to the station. In Moscow Academician Moshkin was sitting in the same position holding a very similar briefcase. Yet this wasn't the only thing they had in common.

Each was an astronomer with a world-wide reputation.

Each specialized in the study of the sun.

GET 13:57

“Have a cigar, Cooper,” the Editor said. “You won't have smoked anything like this in years. A real Havana, claro, the first batch in after the trade treaty with Cuba.”

“Excuse me, sir, I'm sorry, I don't smoke.”

Cooper was too nervous to twitch or even think of nibbling his fingers. He rarely met the Editor of the paper, and certainly had never been in his office before. Here even the City Editor, that tower of strength and vituperation, was subdued and in the background. The Editor opened the liquor cabinet; his fingernails were shining and pink, his hands plump and white, his tailoring immaculate. None of the ink or dirt of the newspaper had rubbed off on him. He held up a cut glass decanter and smiled, showing two rows of perfect white teeth.

“But you'll have a drink of course,” he said. “Twenty-year-old bonded Canadian, I think you might like it. Water?”

Cooper just nodded at every question, still unsure of himself, not knowing why he was here. To be fired? No, the underlings would take care of tasks like that. Then why? He took a large sip of the drink and tried not to cough. His throat was on fire; a cherry coke was the strongest thing he normally indulged in.

“Good, isn't it? I knew you would like it.” He glanced at the City Editor. “Time yet?” he asked.

“A few more minutes, sir.”

“Well warm it up.” The City Editor waded through the carpet to the TV on its carved mahogany case and turned it on. “A special broadcast from Great Britain, Cooper. I thought you ought to see it.”

“Yes, fine idea, thank you, sir.” He got more of the drink down and blinked through his tears at the familiar face of Vance Cortwright on the screen. Cortwright wore his most somber expression and when he spoke it was in deep, funereal tones.

“There is neither moon nor stars in the clouded skies of Britain tonight, as though the very heavens themselves have gone into mourning for the dead. This country has known many disasters in the past with plagues, the Great Fire in London, the trench deaths in the First World War and the bombings in the Second. These people know how to fight and how to survive — and how to die with dignity if they must. But never before have they experienced a disaster to match the one that happened here short hours ago. Reports are still coming in about isolated tragedies, but the central, unbelievable core of the holocaust that struck without warning from the sky is behind me here. The site where Cottenham New Town used to stand. I say used to because there is no other way to describe this.”