The Medusa Chronicles Read Online Free Page B

you with neural jacks are welcome to try out the immersive options, though they are all restricted to passive mode.” Another smile. “Don’t try pressing any buttons in Grandpa’s Apollo Command Module. And maybe you’ll have some insight into how it felt, on Sunday 9th April 1967, when Seth Springer was given the bad news that he wasn’t going to the Moon . . .”
    An area of the wall behind Matt Springer’s lectern became a glowing rectangle, filling with the deep, limitless blue of a cloudless sky. The angle panned down, taking in an expanse of blocky white buildings laid out campus-like amid neat areas of lawn and roadway. For a moment or two it could have passed as a contemporary scene, the buildings’ utilitarian architecture revealing little. But as the point of view zoomed in, so vehicles and figures quickly gave the game away. Squared-off cars, men in suits and hats and ties, despite the obvious heat. And few women to be seen at all. This was a scene from a hundred and thirty years in the past—from the first faltering days of the space age.
    The point of view narrowed to one building, then one window of thatbuilding. And then, with one dizzying swoop, through the glass, into an air-conditioned office. Contemporary fittings, polished wood and leather. Lots of photographs and flags, cabinets and framed documents, a desk with a calendar and a briefcase, but nothing that Falcon recognised as a computer or visual display device . . .
    â€œThe Apollo Moon programme is cancelled. But the good news is,” the man behind that desk was saying, “you two good old boys are gonna get the chance to save the world.”
    â€œIn five minutes there won’t be a dry eye in the house,” Webster said.
    â€œSave mine, of course.”
    â€œCome on, let’s duck out of here. There’s only so much Springer either of us can take. Also there’s someone who wants to talk to you.”
    â€œLet me guess. Nurse Hope.”
    â€œWise guy. And I need a bathroom break. You coming, or not?”
    *  *  *  *
    A short walk under a roof of ribbed bulkhead led to another of the Shore ’s advertised features, the Observation Lounge, a cafeteria-bar. Falcon estimated a quarter-acre of carpet was scattered with tables and floor cushions and even a kids’ play pen, over which loomed an immense blister, a window of toughened Plexiglas. At this time of night, an hour before midnight, nothing was visible beyond the window save pitch-dark ocean.
    Hope Dhoni sat alone at a table before the window. She had some kind of equipment on the table, an open case. As Webster and Falcon approached she looked around and smiled warily.
    The little robot Conseil—presuming it was the same one—rolled over towards them. “May I serve you?”
    â€œNo,” Falcon said curtly.
    â€œHe’ll have iced tea with me,” Hope said firmly. “Thank you, Conseil. You always liked iced tea, Howard.”
    Webster grinned and sat down. “And a bourbon for me. On my tab—”
    â€œYou are all guests of the President on this voyage, Administrator Webster.” Conseil had a mellifluous, almost Bostonian accent, Falcon thought. It wascertainly a lot more humanlike than the buzzing monotone of Adam, that treasured toy from his childhood. The robot trundled away to a softly lit bar area at the back of the room.
    And Falcon rolled away on his own balloon tyres towards that big window. It curved over his head. Cautiously he touched it with one fingertip. He thought of cottage windows, frosted by snow on a winter’s morning—sensations that had been relayed to his brain through skin and nerves, rather than a network of prosthetics and implanted neural receivers.
    A light swam by in the dark, a perfectly smooth, horizontal motion. One of those sea sprites, he assumed. Again, he felt uneasy about how close the automated