Гарри Гаррисон - Skyfall

Flax walked slowly to the podium and adjusted the microphone in front of his lips. Cameras clicked and the blank eyes of the television cameras stared directly at him. The whole world was watching. He coughed a bit into his hand then began to speak.

“As the man in charge of Mission Control it is my job to act as liaison between the crew of Prometheus and the machines and men on the ground, link the two into a single functioning unit. My job here today is to introduce the astronauts and cosmonauts who will be on this first flight. However, before I do, I would like to read to you from a communication I have just received from the Space Center in Houston. As you can see there are only five people beside me on the platform where there should be six. Doctor Kennelly, the space physician who was to go in Prometheus, has been suddenly taken ill. It's not serious, not serious that is in that he is in no danger. He was operated on yesterday for appendicitis with certain complications and the prognosis is for complete recovery. However he will not be in any condition for this flight. Therefore another NASA doctor has been appointed in his place. As you all know we have standbys for everyone on this mission, since the health of any single individual cannot be allowed to affect the entire operation. I will now read to you from the communication I have just received.”

Flax took out the sheet and the cameras clicked even faster.

“It begins with a description of Dr. Kennelly's condition, then adds, 'Considering the present incumbent inoperative procedures have been optioned for qualified trained backup replacement now en route Houston Baikonur ETA 1500 hours your time. Replacement physician is Doctor C. Samuel attached Houston Space Medicine Research Center. Doctor Samuel is 32 years old and a graduate of Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, Maryland. After graduation she interned at Johns Hopkins Hospital…' “

A rising murmur from the press cut him off as those who understood English caught the meaning of what Flax was saying. The simultaneous translation droned on and short moments later the Russian speakers jerked to attention and the murmur grew. Flax stood silent and immobile and waited for silence.

“Ely, did you hear that,” Patrick said angrily.

“Politics, my friend, politics.”

“You're damned right! A woman cosmonaut one up to Moscow, so as soon as Doc Kennelly got sick they must have started scratching around in every NASA lab to find a woman to slot into the program in his place. She can't have been trained so quickly. They're going to sell Prometheus down the river just to play politics one more time….”

“If I may continue,” Flax said. “After graduation Doctor Samuel interned at Johns Hopkins Hospital. All of her biographical material is in this message and will be available to the press after this meeting. Doctor Samuel is a midwesterner, that is she grew up in Detroit although she was born in Mississippi. Before going to Johns Hopkins for pre-medical training she obtained a BA in education at Tuskegee Institute.”

Only the Americans were completely aware now, the rest of the international audience listening and taking notes. Ely sat so quietly his silence was a message. Patrick's jaw was tensed so hard the muscles stood out in ridges. Nadya, sitting next to him, heard him curse under his breath. Now she was angry too.

“Why do you speak like that?” she whispered. “Don't you think a woman is fit to come on this flight? Are women inferior?”

“Politics. They're playing politics.”

“So what if it is politics? If she is qualified it is a very good thing.”

“But don't you realize just how dirty a game they're playing? The Soviets have a woman on this flight, so they must have a woman too. Only they've gone one better. This will really buy the votes and put the finger in the old Russki eye.”

“Why are you so vicious?”

“Why? Didn't you understand? Didn't you hear the name of her school, Tuskegee?”

“I did, yes, but I do not know this center of education.”

“Well I do. It's black. An all-black school. Now if you don't think replacing a pot-bellied Irish-American with a black woman isn't playing politics, then I'd like to know just what in hell is?”

COTTENHAM NEW TOWN, ENGLAND

“You turn on the telly dear, while I clean up the tea things,” Irene said, stacking the dishes while she spoke.

“Right,” Henry Lewis said, pushing himself away from the table. He walked slowly into the front parlor and switched on the set. It was an old one and took a long time to warm up. His favorite chair was already in front of the screen and there was a packet of Woodbines on the table next to it. He lit one and opened the week's TV Mirror.

“I thought so,” he called out. “Repeat of that Leeds United game. The one we missed when we were at your mother's.”

The screen flickered and came to life as he reached out a finger and punched ITV. A man with a neck like a bulldog was talking a foreign language while another voice translated into English. Irritated, Henry pushed BBC–I only to find the same man speaking there. ITV was still the same so, in a last forlorn hope, he did what he rarely did and pushed BBC-2 and got just what he deserved. Three men sitting on wooden chairs blowing horns.

He kicked off his slippers disgustedly and pulled on his boots. Taking his cap and jacket he called out to his wife, “Christ knows what they're up to. Going for a stroll.”

“See you at closing time.”

It was a perfect summer evening and he really didn't mind being out of the house. At the end of the terrace he turned down New Town Road past the tall council flats of the estate. He didn't like them. More like barracks than proper flats. He came abreast of The King's Arms but went on. All plastic and fizzy keg beer with a juke box; he had been in there once and never gone back. Not a decent place at all. It was ten minutes further to the old village, but worth the effort.

This was a bywater, surrounded on all sides by the new town. The main road to the plant from the motorway had sliced away half the village, while the housing estates loomed on all sides. But the remaining bit of village was built in a steep valley and perhaps it would have cost more to fill it in than leave it. There were some cottages, a shop or two, and a half-timbered building with a peeling signboard swinging in front of it. The Horse and Groom, Free House. Henry thumbed down the iron latch and pushed the heavy wooden door open.

“Evening, Henry,” the landlord said, wiping down the bar.

“Evening, George.”

Henry leaned both elbows on the dark wood and watched quietly while George pulled a pint of mild and pushed it over to him. He took a deep draw and sighed happily. George nodded in agreement.

“That's a good barrel, that one is,” he said.

“All right. Not the way it used to be.”

“What is?”

“You can say that again. Even the bloody weather's gone to hell.”

“They say it's those rockets.”

“Rockets! That's what they had on telly this evening instead of the football. Yanks and Russians and more rockets. Nothing to do with us, thank Christ. As if things weren't bad enough. At least we aren't wasting money on capers like that.”

“Can't afford to, that's why. Those bloody politicians would if they could.”

“You're right, George. Wet politicians and watery beer.” He drained the glass and dropped it back to the bar. “Give us another one.”

“Flax, I am going to blow the whistle on the whole thing, so help me I will.”

“Patrick, think first! Put it into gear. You weren't born yesterday. You know you have to compromise in politics and politics is what keeps NASA going. You don't need me to tell you that.”