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

rosewood sheet, were richly carved and inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
Complicated but not profuse gilt moldings ran around the desk.
Turned toward the fire was a rather large, high-backed chair; it too was
done in rosewood with gilt embellishments. It was upholstered in black and
gold brocade. General Toriman sat there, leafing through an ancient folio with
the General's crest on the covers.
Toriman was old now, almost sixty-eight, and his face showed the
reflected horror and misery of a lifetime spent on the battlefield. His hair,
iron gray, was combed back severely and was remarkably thick for a man of his
age. His face, with its interlacing network of lines and old scars, was a
marvel of shadows; his deeply set eyes sat in two dark caves, betraying their
presence only by an occasional glint as they caught the firelight. His sharp
nose, solid jaw and almost lipless mouth completed the cold portrait.
As he rose to greet Limpkin, one could see that his marvelous physique
of latter days had deteriorated only slightly; the General still carried his
bulk with the brutal grace of an Imperial Hussar. Limpkin felt as if he had
moved under a thunder cloud.
The two men were not the best of friends. Toriman had no real friends,
but for the past ten years they had known each other fairly well. Toriman was
the first to speak, apologizing for his dragging Limpkin out on such a beastly
night, but he thought that he had come upon something which he and his Office
should know about as soon as possible. He motioned toward another high-backed
chair, this one not quite so large, which Limpkin pulled close by the fire. A
servant brought in some wine, and the General produced a small walnut
thermidor from amid the clutter of maps and documents on the desk.
 When both men had settled down with their goblets and cigars, Toriman
spoke. "Limpkin, I hope that you will forgive the faulty memory of an old man,
but am I correct in saying that your job involves something to do with the
development of the nation? I think you told me at a party once, but as I said
. . ." Toriman touched a finger to his forehead; firelight glinted off a gold
ring.
"Yes. 'Getting the country back on its feet' is the usual phrase.
Although I am, at times, really quite confounded as to how I am to recreate a
world that I know nothing about and one which might" -- Limpkin's voice
dropped slightly -- "exist only in legend." He brightened a bit. "But, it's an
easy job; most hopeless ones are. I can sit in my fine office on George Street
and fire off no end of orders and plans. And the results? My dear Toriman, you
can see as well as I that the Caroline Republic and the rest of the World is
nothing more than a sometimes-freezing, sometimes-burning hell hole. It
appears that it has, for all intents and purposes, always been so and will
continue to be so, or worse, until some benevolent deity chooses to bring it
to an end."
"You paint a discouragingly black picture."
"The model is black" -- Limpkin paused -- "a fact which the exploits of
the 42nd Imperial Hussars and other elements of other armies has not helped."
Instead of being insulted Toriman only seemed to relax a little.
"Correct, more or less; I offer no apologies and no excuses. Those days are
dead now." Toriman drew thoughtfully on his cigar and stared into the fire.
"But we can hardly allow the unalterable past to sully the plotting of a
brighter future, can we?"