Man O' War, стр. 62

"The word was that you were just a stooge tool deep in the Earth League's pocket. That anything you did here would just be . . . for show, you know. To set us up for the clobber."

Hawkes moved past the younger man, heading for the room's single chair. Sitting down, he put his head in his hands, burying his face in his fingers. As he sat, wordless, seemingly the picture of dejection, Jarolic moved closer to him, pleading his case.

"I swear to you, the Resolute were only behind the bomb." Facing Hawkes, eyes steady, his voice rose as he insisted, "I know the rumors say the men who invaded your ranch were Martian, but they were not Resolute. We couldn't raise the money for something like that even if the colony went on another thirty years. It was all we could do just to get me to Earth."

"Oh, well," said Martel with sarcasm. "Good to hear you're too poor for any all-out violence."

"You're missing the point," Jarolic told her. "I'm trying to warn you about something. I just confessed to a crime you could have me executed for. Doesn't that tell you anything?"

"There's a man in custody here who apparently has pretty much the same story," she snapped back. "You both claim there are going to be riots soon, both claim to be part of the Resolute, both claim to be assassins sent to kill the ambassador."

"Well, yes," said Hawkes, lifting his head. "But I've actually caught the other guy making his attempts." Shaking off his mock depression, the ambassador faced Jarolic.

"You might be a failed murderer, Carl, but I'm pretty sure you're an honest man. I believe you planted the bomb. I also remember some other things you've done for me, so let's say we're even. Also, there's a guy with long brown hair and a nasty disposition I've been itching to do a little dental work on. How about the Resolute assassin and the stooge tool join forces and go see what else that boy has to say?"

"ALL RIGHT, FINE," SAID THE AMBASSADOR, SITTING across the large table from the man with the long, brown hair. His elbows on the table, he threaded his fingers, resting his thumbs against his chin. "You've told us fifty times. Excellent. Now, tell us for the fifty-first. Why has the Resolute planned these riots?"

"To show you greenie flips we mean business. To tell you to pack up your thieving overlords and head on back to Earth." The assassin banged his chains against the ta-bletop. The clatter echoed through the plain room as he shouted, "Mars for Martians, law! Martians in red clay— Greensiders in hell!"

"Oh, dear," said Hawkes with mock fright, "slogans. The rabble have slogans. Whatever shall we do?"

"Sir . . . ?" asked one of the pair of marines in the room.

"No, no," answered the ambassador. Holding up his palm as if to restrain the man and woman, he said, "We couldn't possibly use violence on him. That was outlawed decades ago."

"Ah, sir. . .?"

"No, no, no beatings. No torture. No mind-altering drugs. We couldn't break his bones, or fry his cortex, or burn his skin, or run electrical current through him." His voice darkening, the false notes fading quickly, Hawkescontinued, adding, "No tugging on his nails with pliers, no inserting thin glass tubes into his urethra and then bombarding him with sexual images until he goes erect and castrates himself. No, no, nothing like that."

Peste involuntarily moved back, pushing his spine deep into his chair's woven back. Seeing an uncomfortable dread growing in his eyes, the ambassador let his voice drop to an even more sinister level as he added, "No . . . marines, diplomats . . . we can't do things like that. Rub lye into someone's eyes, snip their toes off, break their teeth with hammers." Hawkes stood up then, moving his way around the table. "Sewing bugs under his eyes, slicing a forked path down the center of his tongue . . . or maybe," added the ambassador, his voice lilting with sudden surprise as he reached a finger out to touch the chained man's shoulder, "maybe just probing him with needles for a while."

Peste flinched violently, the force of his fear moving his chair several inches. The ambassador ignored the reaction, walking back toward the two guards as he said, "No, the law is the law. We just can't do any of that. Which is why you two will be leaving now."

"What?" shrieked the assassin. "You can't leave me here with him."

"Oh, come on now," chided Hawkes as he held open the door for the already departing marines. "You're in security—you know I can't stay. Against regulations for an outsider to be present when a prisoner receives visitors."

"Visitors?" sputtered Peste. "What"re you talking about? Who? What do you mean?"

"Why," answered the ambassador as he held open the door for five silent figures who entered, each with a menacing satchel slung over his shoulder. "Your Resolute brothers."

Terror filled Peste's eyes. He was not stupid enough to miss what was being done to him. He was also not foolish enough to think Hawkes was bluffing. The men moved up to the table and threw their bags onto it, each one clanging with the sound of tools banging one against the other. The chained man, feeling the last of his resolve crumple, shouted, "All right, you win. You win."

"What?" asked Hawkes, stopping halfway out the door. "What do we win?"

"Whatever you want. Names, places . . . answers. I'll talk. But"—Peste regained some of his courage, putting it all into a single demand—"you have to promise to keep me alive. Your word, Hawkes. Your word . . . that you'll keep me safe, and that you'll get me back to Earth."

The ambassador pretended to consider the offer for a moment, then said, "Names, places, answers. In other words, just talk . . . your word against someone