"Philip Jose Farmer - Tongues of the Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Farmer Phillip Jose)

"Mr. Chairman, are we to understand that the principle of nationalismтАФalthough basically not one of Marx's
tenetsтАФ is the recognized rule on the Moon? And, when we return to Earth, on Earth?"
"It is, Mr. Campbell."
"I have just been talking to Mr. Gomez, a Mexican, and Mr. Lorilleux, a Frenchman. We agree that, following
your rule, we each have a valid right to a base where we may establish and preserve our own nationalities. Contrary to
what you seem to take for granted, those of us who are not Yankees are not happy at the prospect of becoming
Yankees. We are as proud of our nationalities as you are of yours."
For the first time since Broward had known him, Scone became red in the face.
He shouted, "It's obvious to anyone but an idiot that this rule can be followed only when practical! We don't
have the means for every piddling little national to go his own way. What would you do, have us dig you two cells in
the rock a thousand miles away and set a dome over it and hoist the Canadian flag over it? And do the same for the
Swiss, and the Frenchman, and the Mexican, and the Swede? How would you reproduce? Would each of you take a
woman with you, a woman who probably would not want to give up her nationality for yours?
"No, Mr. Campbell, you're being utterly ridiculous. You know it; you're trying to wreck the proceedings of
this conference, and trying to make me look foolish."
"If I'm ridiculous," said Campbell, "then so is everyone else here, you included. There aren't more than three
hundred people on the Moon, yet you talk of maintaining nationalities and separate bases. We need each other. We
must tear down all barriers. I think that Schwartz's proposal is a very sensible one, the only one, in fact. Unless we all
move into one base."
Broward was about to leap to his feet to back Campbell when he became aware of a man standing by him. He
looked up to see Sergeant Ross.
'Time for you to report to the Dorland, sir." Broward started to ask why an escort had been sent for him.
Then, he closed his mouth. Scone did not want him to talk to Ingrid before he left.
He rose and said, "I want to see somebody for a minute."
The sergeant looked at his watch and shook his head. "No time, sir. Your takeoff is automatic; your flight
path is, too, until you reach your destination. You can't be one second behind time."
Broward knew that this was not true. The latest navigational equipment had capabilities for self-adjustment to
changes. But Scone must have given Ross strict orders. Sighing, Broward nodded and walked out of the room.
He found Moshe and Wellers and several engineers and technicians waiting for him. Wellers gave them final
instructions. Then, just as they were ready to board the Dorland, they saw a sergeant enter. He held a carton of
cigarettes in his hand.
Coming up to Broward, he saluted, then said, "Compliments of Colonel Scone, sir."
Broward took the carton and said, "That's very nice of the colonel, Sergeant. Tell him thanks for me."
"It's the last one in Clavius, sir," replied the sergeant. "Maybe the last in the whole Moon."
"And he sent it to me," murmured Broward. "In the old days, the condemned were always given a big meal
and cigarettes just before the execution," Yamanuchi said.
Yes, thought Broward, but this gift was not one to be expected from Scone. He was thoroughly
unsentimental. Moreover, Scone smoked and giving this carton meant a sacrifice for him. Until the tobacco plants were
taken from the Zemlya's tanks and placed in a garden in the Moon, there would be no more smokes for the Moon
personnel. And it was not likely that it would be grown for a long time. The strict economy of the Moon could not
afford the luxury of tobacco fields.
Maybe, thought Broward, it would be better if the plant was never taken out of the tanks. Most of mankind
had gotten along quite well without nicotine before Columbus, and they'd be much better off without it now. Be that
as it might, Scone's act was entirely unexpected.
"You smoke?" he said to the sergeant.
"Not for long," the sergeant replied. "I got half a pack left, and I'm nursing that."
"Here," said Broward, handing the carton to him, "take a couple of packs. Pass the rest around among your
men."
Broward raised his hand to stop the sergeant's protests. "I have to quit sometime; I may not live long enough
to get through a pack. No use wasting them."