Конец вечности
Computer
ThemanwasCommunications,asubbranchofMaintenance,notaSpecialistatall.
Andhegavethe"Technicianglance"too.
Harlansaidalittlesadly,"Well?"
Communicationssaidquickly,"I’mringingComputerFinge,sir."
Harlanrememberedthe482ndassolidandmassive,butnowitseemedalmostsqualid.
Harlanhadgrownusedtotheglassandporcelainofthe575th,toitsfetishofcleanliness.Hehadgrownaccustomedtoaworldofwhitenessandclarity,brokenbysparsepatchesoflightpastel.
Theheavyplasterswirlsofthe482nd,itssplashypigments,itsareasofpaintedmetalwerealmostrepulsive.
EvenFingeseemeddifferent,lessthanlife-size,somewhat.Twoyearsearlier,toObserverHarlan,Finge’severygesturehadseemedsinisterandpowerful.
Now,fromtheloftyandisolatedheightsofTechnicianhood,themanseemedpatheticandlost.Harlanwatchedhimasheleafedthroughasheafoffoilsandgotreadytolookup,withtheairofsomeonewhoisbeginningtothinkhehasmadehisvisitorwaitthedulyrequiredamountoftime.
Fingewasfromanenergy-centeredCenturyinthe600’s.Twissellhadtoldhimthatanditexplainedagooddeal.Finge’sflashesofilltempercouldeasilybetheresultofthenaturalinsecurityofaheavymanusedtothefirmnessoffield-forcesandunhappytobedealingwithnothingmorethanflimsymatter.
