Гарри Гаррисон - Skyfall

“Is he dead, Doc?” someone asked. “A heart attack?” The doctor ignored him, feeling for a pulse in the thick wrist, pushing down hard with his stethoscope on Flax's chest, trying to make out a heartbeat through the layers of fat. The doctor finally lifted one heavy eyelid, then closed it again, before climbing slowly to his feet.

“Dead. .?” a voice asked, weakly. The doctor shook his head.

“Asleep,” he said. “This man's exhausted, totally exhausted. Call down for a stretcher. I want him in bed as soon as possible.”

It took six men to lift Flax onto the stretcher — and four to carry it. They went out in solemn procession. If not in a victory procession at least not in total defeat.

The engineer at the communications console was the only one left. He shut down his circuits one by one until he came to the last. He switched this to his headphones and rang it one final time.

“Mr. Dillwater,” he said.

“Yes, thank you very much. Goodbye,” Simon Dillwater dropped the phone and rose. He felt dizzy; it had been a long, long time.

“If you're going I can drop you off,” Grodzinski said, standing as well and stretching broadly, yawning. “I gotta car waiting.”

“That's very kind.”

“Please don't go yet, Simon,” Dr. Schlochter said. “The President would like to see you. You and General Banner-man.”

“I am not so sure that I want to see him.”

“You do, Simon. Believe me. I have had a long and heart-to-heart talk with him and I think he understands your position. “

Bannerman looked at them, then turned away and went to the bar. He still stamped hard when he walked and his spurs clinked metallically. It had been one bitch of a time and he was tired. One more large drink was in order. He poured a half glass of whiskey, dropped two ice cubes into it and swished it around. He looked up as the door opened and Bandin entered. He had shaved and changed and the TV makeup hid the blackness under his eyes. He looked fresh as a daisy compared to the others, though he felt the same inside.

“I have a few minutes before I address the nation,” he said, in his most dignified manner, the speaking-to-the nation tones already in his voice. “Therefore I will take this opportunity to inform you both about certain decisions that I have made. First, General, I wish to tell you that Operation PEEKABOO is being shut down---”

“We can't do that, not after what's gone into it,” Bannerman said angrily.

“I am afraid that we can. That we must. The operation has been compromised and too many people know about it. If we shut it down now it will be as though it never existed. If there are rumors later we can deny everything.”

“Canceling PEEKABOO will jeopardize the fate, the very future of this great nation, Mr. President.”

“One bomb less?” Dillwater said. He knew he should not speak out, but his fatigue hampered his control. “This country and the Soviets have the capacity between them to destroy the world eight times over with atomic bombs. I should think that that would be enough.”

“And we will be destroyed if people like you have their way,” Bannerman roared out. “We can only stop communist aggression by being prepared, by being stronger, by being one jump ahead of them at all times.”

“I am sorry for you,” Dillwater said, his quiet voice in striking contrast to the General's angry one. “With your archaic boots and spurs and even more ancient jingoistic mind. You are not aware that your kind is as dead as the dodo, extinct but without the brains to lie down and die. Mankind now has the chance to wipe itself out, your course, General, or cooperate and try for a future. We must cooperate to husband the limited resources of our plundered planet and see that they are shared out equally. We must cooperate or die. Perhaps that is something that you will never understand.” He turned his back on Bannerman, abruptly, rudely. “I welcome your decision, Mr. President.”

“I thought you would,” Bandin said. “I've been talking with Polyarni and we're going ahead full steam from space. And we both want you to go on heading the project. Okay?”

“I have been thinking of nothing else, Mr. President. My resignation still stands — unless I have the final authority on the project.”

“You always have…”

“No. I beg your pardon, but I have not. There have been too many political decisions overruling the technical ones. I believe the catastrophe of Prometheus One was caused by the rush to launch, the pressure, the lack of time from political not engineering reasons. If I have the final authority on all matters I will go ahead with the work.”

“You're asking a goddamned lot, Dillwater.”

“I'm promising a goddamned lot, Mr. President. We will get the first of the power flowing, if all goes well, within the year.” He smiled slightly. “So I might be promising you the next election.”

Bandin hesitated, looked at the Secretary of State. Dr. Schlochter nodded.

“All right then,” Bandin said. “You have the job---”

“And your promise in writing of course, Mr. President.” Bandin took a deep breath, glared at Dillwater, turned and slammed out. Simon Dillwater left as well and General Bannerman was alone.

He raised his drink, glared at it, then downed it.

“Well maybe PEEKABOO is dead,” he said as he tightened his belt and pulled down his jacket. “But NANCY JANE is almost out of the planning stage and at least that bastard Dillwater doesn't know about that one yet.”

His nostrils flared like a war horse going into battle as he stamped, jingling, from the room.

Cooper tapped the figures into his hand calculator and watched the little red numbers flicker and change. And come up with the same solution each time. If the Gazette-Times had upped their circulation because of his stories on Prometheus, then at the end of the year they would have added to their profits $850,000, more if the additional advertising revenue were taken into consideration, but that was good for a rough picture. Or an additional profit of $16,346.15 a week. While he had a twenty-dollar raise, or about one eighth of one percent of the profits his brilliant writing had earned them. Not only that but, after taxes, the raise would be about seven bucks a week and if you considered the growing inflation his annual income would be down about thirteen percent by the end of the year. He clicked off the calculator and.threw it into the drawer in his desk. A copy boy dropped an envelope onto his typewriter.

From the editor! Things weren't going to be as black as he thought. He tore it open and took out the boldly typed sheet inside.

NOT REALLY SATISFIED THIS STORY OF YOURS. WEAK PUNCH. GET SOMETHING NEW. WHAT ABOUT CHROMIUM POISONING IN JAPAN? COULD IT HAPPEN HERE? COPY SOONEST.

There was fine beading of sweat along Cooper's receding hairline as he groped down his copy of Annual Abstracts,

Chemical Contents of Industrial Waste.

“You can't go in there, nurse,” the MP said. “There's a debriefing going on.”

Coretta stopped and looked at him scornfully, lifting one eyebrow high. “Look again, soldier,” she said. “I'm a doctor not a nurse. And if you look a little closer you might even recognize me.”

The man started to smile until he saw the look in her eyes. He snapped to attention.

“I'm sorry, Dr. Samuel. But I have my orders.”

“Not in a hospital, sonny. Don't try to get between a doctor and Tier patient. Now move.”

He moved and she threw the door wide. The four officers grouped around Patrick's bed looked up, startled.

“What is the meaning of your presence here?” she asked.

“Just talking to the Major, Dr. Samuel,” the colonel holding the tape recorder said. “A de-briefing. Dr. Jurgens said it would be perfectly all right.”