"Michael McCollum - Man of Renaissance" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCollum Michael)

representative sampling of the Imperials' strength, they must number at least four troops of cavalry and an
unknown number of support personnel. That was a big chunk of manpower for Juan Pablo Andros, the
Duke of Sonora, to send this far north -- especially considering the other claimants-of-the-moment for his
throne.

Obviously, the fact that he had sent them north was convincing evidence that he had some overwhelming
reason for doing so. Beckwith cursed the fates that had prevented Vargas from finishing his report.
Whatever had happened, it had been no mechanical failure. A clear carrier wave had ridden the satellite
channels for almost three minutes after Vargas's voice link had been silenced.

The patrol did not stop at the village square as Beckwith had expected, but rode through the inner
defense wall and into the courtyard of the hacienda belonging to Don Ynicente Galway, Patron de la
Pueblo . Beckwith had spent many an enjoyable evening in that great rambling structure, playing chess
and arguing philosophy with his host. He hoped the old pepperpot had not objected too strenuously to
Juan Pablo's henchmen taking over his home. Beckwith had too few true friends in this world as it was.
He would hate to lose two in the same month.

The captain led him through the fortified outer door and into the gloomy interior of the hacienda, stopping
only when he arrived at the door of Galway's study. He knocked briskly and waited for a muffled order
to enter. Inside, sitting behind Galway's desk -- a prized pre-war antique -- was a General of the
Imperial Mexican Army in full regalia. His chest was covered with more medals than Beckwith had ever
seen before in one spot. More important was the fact that the general was Moctezuma's man (not Juan
Pablo's), and that he was commanding Sonoran troops.

After the Captain had finished his report, the general, a rotund, mustachioed man with hard eyes, waved
dismissal and the Sonoran officer spun briskly on his heel and marched out.

The general leaned back in the squeaky swivel chair and regarded Beckwith for a moment in silence.
The doctor stood his ground, coolly returning the stare.

"I am General Miguel Stefan Trujillo of the Militar de Mexico ," he said, finally, leaning forward to rest
his elbows on the polished surface of the desk. "You are the traveling doctor for this village?"

" Si, Sen├╡r General."

"I would have expected an older man."

Beckwith shrugged. "Riding circuit requires the stamina of youth, General. Do not fear. I began my
training at age twelve. That was twenty-five years ago. I assure you that I am highly skilled in my craft."

"Why is it that none of your patients informed us that you were due at this time?"

Beckwith shrugged. "Probably because none of them knew it themselves. I am late this year. Got hung
up fighting an outbreak of blue plague up in the Navajo Nation last fall and I've been rushing to catch up
ever since."

" La peste!" The general crossed himself with his right hand and made the sign of the Mushroom Cloud
with his left. Beckwith wondered what the Archbishop of Mexico City would think of such an overt
appeal to paganism in one of His Majesty's highest-ranking officers, a comment he carefully refrained
from making aloud.