Man O' War, стр. 75

A flurry of noise and activity followed. A hundred questions were hurled toward the ambassador. Choosing those few he would answer, he told them, "I shall leave the vid-pac I showed you earlier with the sergeant-atarms. How he disposes of it, what you do with it, is up to you. This will make clear what the Earth League has been doing over the last half century. It will show you the crimes that this body—and every other major governing body on this world—are guilty of. How this is handled is up to you."

Another breath, and then—his arms shaking, his forehead beading with perspiration, but his soul clear and calm—he went on, saying, "Mars does not care what you do to these people. For them, sweet freedom is enough. They have paid for it in toil, they have paid for it in sweat. Its price has been met in courage and in blood and with an honor sorely lacking here . . . and it shall not be taken away."

At that point, Hawkes motioned to the sergeant-at-arms to come to the podium. Handing him the vid-pac, he turned back to the assembly and announced, "I shall be returning to the Martian embassy, where I will stay for the next two weeks. Then I shall be returning to Mars."

"Embassy?" came a confused cry. "Where is there a Martian embassy? And why would you be returning to Mars?"

Wearily, the ambassador picked up his papers, then said, "The embassy is in Wyoming, in the most beautiful part of the Absaroka mountain range. I'm sure Mick Carri can tell you where it is,"

Refolding his papers, Hawkes returned them to his inner jacket pocket, telling the crowd at the same time, "As to why I'll be returning off-world . . . well, ever since the elections . . . I suppose that's where I belong."

And then the first prime minister of Mars turned and left the stage. He walked slowly but straight backed, knowing that no matter how much this felt like an ending, it was really all just beginning.

EPILOGUE

"So," asked Martel, "what do you think of the news?"

Sitting down on the side porch, accepting a cup of coffee from Cook, Hawkes asked, "With all the news in the world right now, you wouldn't want to give an old man a clue, would you?"

"Mick Carri's little series of speeches?" When the prime minister merely rolled his eyes, she said, "He's making a big push to grab the presidential nomination. He gets it, it'll make it awfully hard to pin any crimes on him."

"Pinnin' crimes on a senator's like rubbin' fat on a hog," said Cook as she headed back into the kitchen. "What would be the point?"

Martel narrowed her eyes, giving the old woman a playfully evil look. Hawkes merely smiled. Sitting back in his chair, he took a long sip from his cup, then said, "I don't care what happens to him—what happens here— anymore. I really don't. Now that the ranch is Martian property, Clean Mountain can't touch it. If Carri tries to annex it, it's a declaration of war. He got into bed with CME and the Earth League just to get at me. The way things have been turned around on all of them, they've got a lot bigger problems on their hands than revenge for the moment."

"Does that mean you don't think things will end in war?"

Hawkes took a long time to answer. "I wish I had a good answer for you, but really . . . I don't know. I hope not. I hope the race can get past its usual, first solution for once." Hawkes tilted his head to one side. "I hope."

" 'Hope,' " quoted Martel, " 'of all ills that men endure/ The only cheap and universal cure.' "

"Abraham Crowley," answered the prime minister. Countering her cynical reference, he responded, " 'Everything that is done in the world is done by hope.' ''

"Martin Luther?" she guessed. He nodded, impressed. "I'd expect a churchman to put a good spin on the idea," she said. "Give me Ben Franklin any day."

" 'He that lives on hope will die fasting'?" When she nodded, he told her, "Shame on you. You're young. I'm the one that's supposed to be the old, embittered cynic. Can't you come up with one positive thought on the subject?"

"Oh, maybe," she said, standing up out of her chair. Stepping off the porch, trying hard to hide a devilish grin, she said, "Let me take a walk and think about it."

Hawkes watched her leave, wondering what she was up to. Knowing he would find out sooner or later, he decided to simply sit back quietly and try to enjoy his home while he was still there.

Emptying his head, leaving intrigue and war and all thoughts of the past few months behind, he turned his attention outward, enjoying the feel of the wind against his face. His mind filled with sensory images instead offacts and words—the smell of his fields, his trees, the feel of the wood of his porch under his boots, of the arm of his chair under his fingers, the simple sounds of his animals in the distant pasture, of the sun-grown life ripening all around him.

Closing his eyes, he brought his cup up to his nostrils. Inhaling deeply, he remembered how he had missed the smell of South American coffee. Yes, he thought, they had coffee on Mars. But it was hydroponically grown coffee. All of it from the same source. All of it tasting exactly the same.

"Small price," he whispered.

"What's a small price?" came Martel's voice from behind him.

Without turning, he told her, "Nothing, really. I was just thinking that there are a lot of things that I am going to miss when we return to Mars."

Without commenting, Martel simply recited,

" 'Hope' is the thing without feathers

That perches in the soul—

And sings the tune without words

And never stops—at