"Tom Kratman - A Desert Called Peace" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kratman Tom)

that, with the poor south exaggerated in apparent importance but the white and European north still in the
commanding center.
The doors closed behind Robinson with a whoosh. He walked the few carpeted steps to his chair
and buckled himself in. Even more than the ships, the shuttles needed replacing. Roughly a third were
unfit for flight for lack of parts. Moreover, though the skins were the best product of Earth at the height of
its technological achievements, the composite of which they were constructed was no longer produced.
Terra Nova, specifically the FSC, produced something similar (in fact, the nose cones of the missiles it
had aimed at the Peace Fleet were made of it), but that was unacceptable for any number of reasons.
It was becoming a logistic burden as well. The shuttles that were still working had to be used
overtime. This cut into their maintenance and led to even more failures. Moreover, though logistic effort
had been saved with the skeletonization of the crews of the two cannibalized ships, and more by reducing
the crews of others by a variable percentage, this put in danger the entire fleet.
And I haven't a clue as to what to do about it, Robinson fumed. One problem's solution just
creates another problem. If I'd known then what I know now, I doubt I'd ever have accepted this
assignment.
Instead of worrying about it, uselessly, the High Admiral stretched out in his chair and slept. He
dreamt of the skiing, which he missed, north of the town of Atlanta, by the huge and growing Dahlonega
Glacier.
***
It was going to be one of those cocktail receptions, Robinson decided.
"The FSC has become a rogue state," insisted the slender, well coiffed blonde. This was the intense
тАУ and, so Robinson thought, even more intensely vapid тАУ Commissioner for Culture from the Tauran
Union, one of the new supra-nationals coming to prominence on the planet. The Commissioner was on
Atlantis with special permission to bid for objets d'art for a consortium of TU museums. "Unni Wiglan,"
she had introduced herself as.
Robinson considered her for what she was likely to be worth. As High Admiral he could have his
pick of the Novan woman at the reception, of course. On the other hand, although he had a taste for
blonde women (that hair color having become rather rare on Earth), she really seemed so earnestly dull
that he wasn't quite sure that the no-doubt enjoyable use of her body could quite make up for the torment
of having to listen to her talk afterwards. With mixed feelings, he decided, No, it really wouldn't be
worth it.
 Robinson simply asked, "And what do you think we can do about it?"
Which question ended that discussion, as well as short-circuiting any discussions in the immediate
future that might have been of a more pleasant nature.
***
It was a good question, actually, the High Admiral later reflected in his ashore quarters. What can
I do about it? Options? Hmmm.
A. I nuke the planet. It'll cost me the fleet and Atlantis Base тАУ no big deal since I don't have a
family here, and I could make sure I was safe and away before we struck тАУ but at least I can still
nuke them. Set them back . . . oh . . . maybe four or five hundred years. Then they come looking
for Earth.
B. Get the Novans to nuke each other. Not hard but they'll probably nuke my fleet, too, on
general principle. The FSC would, for a certainty; bastards can hold a grudge. So they nuke each
other and us. Sets them back also four or five hundred years. Then they build a fleet and come
looking for Earth.
C. Leave things alone. Within one hundred years my fleet is a worn out ruin. Within one
hundred years the Novans are more than capable of launching their own ships. Then they come
looking for Earth.
D. Change Earth. Not going to happen. Half the reason they sent me here, instead of leaving
me home, was that I was even capable of thinking about changing Earth. History ended there and