Man O' War, стр. 13
"Caught me there," the much older man admitted. "Truth, just got to her today, so I don't rightly know yet."
"Well, I see you got the oil pan off. What's it look like in there?"
"Oh, that's fine. All clean wet. Little metal, sure, but just specks. Normal bushing and thrust-washer wear. You know. Nothing serious."
"You check all the other fluid levels?. . ."
"Oh, yeah, always do the easy stuff first. Everything's topped off, all the colors are good. None of the hoses are cracked, all the vacuum lines are connected."
Hawkes stood back from his old 4X4 and frowned. Several decades earlier, personal vehicles had begun to disappear in America. Using public transportation had become the government-mandated mark of a good citizen. Gasoline and diesel fuel had been taxed excessively to give the infant electric and hover transportation industries an advantage.
Both of the new technologies shared the problem of working efficiently only in massive constructs, though. So for the good of the environment, and the bank accounts of several well-placed individuals, private ownership of vehicles was labeled un-American, elitist, racist, wasteful, phallocentric, and just plain bad. The cities and suburbs of America were given over to selected monopolies to move people about as they saw fit.
The problem for Hawkes was twofold. First, none of the monopoly-run bus, floating platform, subway, or train lines came anywhere near his property. And secondly, even if he were to apply for a private hovercraft ownership permit, it would do him no good. Hover technology still had not conquered the upgrade barrier. Any elevated plane that rose quicker than twenty-nine degrees caused all hover engines to choke. It was due to their inability to break away from the Earth at certain speeds, all of it beyond the ambassador, and all of it useless to a man who lived in the mountains.
So Benton Hawkes had been forced to learn to care for his four-wheel-drive vehicles. Over the years he and his foreman, Ed Keller, had tracked down parts from around the world, learning to build the ones they could not buy or barter. It was either that, or sell off the ranch and move into a city, Ed had joked once.
"I'd rather switch to forty-four-caliber mouthwash," the ambassador had answered. Ed had nodded grimly, and they both laughed.
The memory of that day came back to Hawkes as the two stood staring at the engine in the cold morning air. However, the moment was suddenly shattered as Disraeli bolted back into the barn and began barking once more. Sighing, the ambassador smiled, then told his foreman, "Listen, maybe it's a fluctuation problem in the oil pressure. You've got Danny here. Why don't you two cycle the transmission, see if you can find any aeration."
"I don't know if I'll be much help, sir."
"Well, there's only one way to find out."
As Hawkes threw his gloves on the utility table, Ed asked, "Where'll you be, case I need to find you?"
"I'm going to walk the back divide, check the fence. Get used to things again."
"You think that's more important than getting this heap running?" the old man shouted over the Labrador's deep barking.
"I figured I'd take Dizzy with me."
"Deal," answered Ed, laughing. "No wonder they made you a negotiator."
"Well, it was easier than working for a living."
"They could still use you, sir," Stine threw in hurriedly. "Now more than ever."
"Danny . . ."
"You know they need you."
Hawkes turned with a cold look in his eye. In a quiet voice filled with steel, he said, "It's a long walk down the mountain, Stine. I'd think about helping to get the truck running."
And then he turned and walked away, Disraeli snapping at his heels. Silently, Hawkes disappeared into the livestock barn, the dog sitting down quietly at the front entrance to the larger building. Staring at the scene, Stine asked the foreman, "What's in there?"
"Horses," Ed answered, patting the 4 X 4's side. "No sense in wasting fuel when you got hay burners. 'Sides, he's going out to check the Scar. Ain't no roads back there."
"The Scar?" asked the ambassador's aide. Like any young man confronted with a job he did not wish to do, he badgered the foreman with distractions. "What's that?"
"It's where an ore ship fell out of the sky—killed the boss's daddy."
"But why did you call it the Scar?"
" 'Cause that's what it looked like. Damn thing tore up the ground, burned all the trees, poisoned everything for a long time. Ground cover just started coming back these last few years."
Ed turned at the sound of horse and rider erupting from the barn. Hawkes was giving the mare he had picked its head, letting it move as fast as it wanted. Disraeli bounded along behind them, snapping and barking. Watching them disappear around the edge of the main house, Ed said, "I know him. He ain't been out there since he got back. He's got to pay his respects."
"You seem to know the ambassador better than anyone I've ever met," said Stine. "I've never known him to get close to anyone before. Have you worked for him a while?"
Ed Keller took a long look at Stine. He had been foreman for Benton Hawkes's father—had raised him after his father's death. He knew other people never got the chance to know the real Ben Hawkes—the one he knew. Oftentimes he thought it was a shame. But he also knew the reason why the ambassador kept people at arm's distance. It was an old thing, a private thing, one he was sure Hawkes still meant to keep private for a long time.
Keller studied Stine for a moment. He knew the younger man wanted to get closer to the ambassador. He wondered briefly if perhaps it had been kept private for too long.
"Hand me that bit of