"Mark S. Geston - Lords Of The Starship" - читать интересную книгу автора (Geston Mark S)

else. For it was an identifying characteristic of the masters of Caltroon that
they should prize beauty, because their lives were so often devoid of it, and
power, because without that they would soon have no life at all.
Limpkin thought of all this as he was led through the labyrinthine rooms
and halls. The bloodied lance of the present and the pitted rifle of past ages
hung between a piece of exquisite crystal sculpture from Bannon der-Main and
an illuminated manuscript from the Black Library at Calnarith. But the dust
was gathering on the beautiful and the powerful alike. The castle and its
master were, by slow degrees, dying. _As I am_, thought Limpkin wearily, _as
is the Caroline Republic, as is the World_. The lot of them would never
actually fall, but the dust would simply keep on piling up until they were all
buried.
Limpkin absently recalled that once, when he had had lunch with Toriman
and several other officers and civilians from the War Office, he had remarked
to the General that mankind seemed to have lost something a very long time
ago. As to what it was or as to when it had disappeared, Limpkin could give no
clue. And Toriman had turned to him and said that he often got the same
feeling; perhaps the missing essence could be found? Perhaps. Toriman was
credited with stranger feats, and Limpkin had received unofficial word that
the General had been wandering around the western wastes for the past four and
a half months; perhaps this meeting . . .
Limpkin quickly abandoned this line of thought as the servant opened a
door and stood to one side. "The General is waiting for you in his study,
sir," he murmured, and vanished into the shadows behind Limpkin.
General Toriman's study was a colossal room more reminiscent of the nave
of a cathedral rather than the cozy, walnut paneled dens that one usually
associates with gentlemen's studies. Its walls consisted of hardwood bookcases
running the length of the room. Row upon row of finely bound volumes, richly
inlaid map trays, and celestial globes of all sizes filled the walls and
dotted the floors on either hand. The far wall was dominated by a huge walk-in
fireplace; its fire, along with four wrought-iron chandeliers, lighted the
vast room with a warm, pulsating glow. Replicas of the three flags that
Limpkin had seen flying from the walls stood by the fireplace, their brocaded
insignia glowing in the rust-yellow light. And once again, the Toriman coat of
arms, this time made of burnished steel and brass, hung directly above the
mantle. The rest of the wall was paneled with a deeply stained mahogany.
As Limpkin walked into the cavernous room, he became aware of the floor:
black and white checkered marble. Even a room as large as this one could have
been made more pleasant by the vast quantity of books and artifacts at hand;
the warm fire, the soft light and darkness, the smell of fine leathers, paper,
and rare wood were all canceled out by that cold floor. Leaf through one of
the volumes and a soft rustling would be heard; listen to the fire: a pleasant
crackling. But walk upon the floor, with the regimental insignia of the Army
graven into the black squares, and you put a frigid screen over the soft
beauty of the place. Limpkin crossed the floor quickly, his steel-tipped
traveling boots clanking harshly on the polished marble.
Toriman's desk was set directly in front of the fireplace; it was almost
as impressive as the room itself. It was at least seventeen feet long, made of
a single slab of rosewood; it was supported by four thin, almost delicate legs
which, along with the border that hung down about five inches from the