Man O' War, стр. 4
At that moment, however, he could not look at either. Turning his back on both, he walked across the cabin, drawing back the sliding shutter from one of the windows on the left-hand side. Darkness filled his view. The vast cloud cover just below the plane was still too dense to allow even a glimpse of the ground. Not that he would have been likely to know where they were at this altitude, even if the sky was clear.
As another lightning bolt crashed down, flashing the clouds with a moment of brightness, he sighed and turned away, leaving the shutter open. Walking down the length of his on-board quarters to the mirror over his private vanity, he ran his hand along the sink counter, admitting to himself, Nice perks in this work. I almost hate to give it all up.
The ambassador stared into the mirror, searching for something in his reflection. All he saw was the same solidly chiseled face, strong, thick-boned shoulders, and slightly graying hair he had grown used to over the decades. There was weariness around his blue-gray eyes, though, that had not been there years ago—a sad, tiring weight that had been dragging at him for far too long.
Reaching across the counter, he touched his forefinger to the water control, automatically indexing the flow rate and temperature level he desired without having to think about it. Reaching under the spout, he cupped his palms until they were full and then splashed his face with the tepid water—once, twice. Indexing for it to halt, he took down a towel and dried his face and hands, and then went back to his seat, pausing only to turn down the lights along the way.
He sat back firmly in his chair so as to lever out its hidden hassock. Then, with his feet up and his eyes closed, Hawkes reached out unerringly and snagged his drink. Taking another sip, he nestled the glass on his chest and reviewed the choices he had remaining, wondering if he had any.
Well, a voice sounded in the back of his mind, you could always get a job rigging on the Skyhook.
"Not in a million years," he muttered, wondering how even his most cynical self could come up with such a thought. Always the diplomat, however, he admitted, "And that's not my own personal distaste for them coming through. It's a new world out there, Bennie. And nobody in it needs the likes of a Benton Hawkes anymore.
The ambassador rubbed at his tired eyes, wondering if he was actually right. He could remember his father talking about how so much had changed during his lifetime. He wondered what the gruff old rancher would have thought if he had lived long enough to see the changes in his son's.
Benton Hawkes had been born in 2013, the same year the world pooled its resources to begin the Great Diversion. At least the old man had seen that much, the ambassador thought, and sighed—eight nations pulling together to send a single ship to the asteroid belt. Before he was gone, they had even intercepted their target—a miles-wide hunk of ore the scientists had said held the key to the future—attached their explosives in the right places, and blown it out of orbit and onto a trajectory that would bring it within a radically close half million miles of the Earth.
He had not lived to see the erection of Lunar City, though, or the expedition of its fleet to intercept the meteor. None of the discoveries that the countless tons of ore brought his world helped him—neither the universal conductor, nor the permanent filament. These new materials built the Skyhook, took mankind to Mars, allowed the red planet to be colonized and worked—allowed the asteroids to be mined.
One move by bold men and women that had changed the destiny of the Earth forever. Absolutely forever.
Yeah—it's just a great big new world out there, his cynical side reminded him. So forgive and forget. Get a job on the Skyhook. Space—that's the career for you.
"Never," he said quietly. He took a sip from his drink, and placed the tumbler back on his chest, though the sweet taste on his lips was not enough to cover the rising bile in his throat. He opened his eyes but could still see the picture he wished to avoid—could still remember every detail of his father's death more than forty years earlier. He could see the burning wreckage of the ore lifter, remembered his screams, old Ed keeping him back from the flames—back from his father . . .
"No," the ambassador said with finality. "No, I don't think so."
Clean Mountain had been a much younger company then. When they had been granted the government contract to gather ore for use in building Lunar City, they had been little more than wildcatters. The deal they made with Hawkes's father had been for mining rights throughout much of his property. Then, before all the proper documents could be completed, the ambitious young company had sent one of their processors out to the Hawkes ranch to get a head start.
An eager executive, a rash pilot, an old ship that had been jury-rigged and patched too many times, and suddenly an eleven-year-old Benton was an orphan. His father's foreman stayed on, ran the farm in his friend's name, raised his son. The contract with Clean Mountain was never completed. Old Ed and young Benton were so adamant, they were never even allowed back on the property to clear the crash site. And now, because of that ancient wreckage and paperwork left unfinished nearly a half century, CM Enterprises' lawyers