"Tom Purdom-Legacies" - читать интересную книгу автора (Purdom Tom)

had been a lot pleasanter than most of the other two week periods he could remember. Somewhere in
the center of his personality, sleeping with his hippopotamus, there was a little boy who would have been
quite happy if neither of his parents ever came home again.
And that, of course, was the problem.
***


Medical Captain Dorothy Min was a tall young woman with a round, pleasant face and a manner that
correlated with her appearance. Deni Wei-Kolin might have liked her very much, in fact, if she had been
a teacher or a childcare specialist. At 23:07 Hammarskjold time -- forty-two minutes after the
Rinaswandi defense system had decided it was under attack -- Captain Min was sitting in front of the
communications screen in her personal quarters. She was revising a statement in which she requested, for
the fourth time, that she be allowed to communicate with Deni's parents. She was staring at a paragraph
in which she explained -- once again -- the major reason she wanted to apply a procedure that she and
her colleagues usually referred to as an "esem."
I can only repeat what I've already said before, the paragraph under consideration read. The death
of one of Deni's parents -- especially in combat -- could result in permanent, lifelong psychological
damage if we do not apply the appropriate preventive measure before that happens. Fantasies
about his parents' deaths have become an important component of Deni's emotional structure.
The death of one of his parents could trigger guilt reactions no seven-year-old personality can
possibly handle. It has now been fourteen days since I originally asked for permission to discuss
this matter with Gunnery Sergeant Wei and Assault Sergeant Kolin. If either of his parents is
killed in combat before we can provide him with the benefits of at least one session with an
ego-strengthening emotional modification procedure, the prognosis for Deni's future emotional
development is about as hopeless as it can get.
Half the space on Captain Min's screen was cluttered with paragraphs and charts she had included in
the three memos she had already addressed to the commander of the Akara Assault Force. She should
keep her memo short, her contact on the torch ships had told her, but she shouldn't assume General
Lundstrom had read her previous communications. This time, her contact had assured her, the message
would bypass the general's over-protective staff.
She touched the screen with her finger and drew an X over the now in 'It has now been fourteen days'.
The now added a little emphasis, in her opinion, but her contact had made it clear every word counted.
A light glowed over a loudspeaker. "Captain Dorothy Min has a call from Dr. Bedakar Barian," the
communications system murmured. "Emergency Priority."
Captain Min tapped the accept button on her keyboard. A plump, bearded face replaced the text on
her screen.
"There's a report on Trans-Solar, Dorothy -- an attack on Rinaswandi. Have you seen it yet?"
Captain Min grabbed her stylus and scratched a command on the notebook lying beside her right
hand. Dr. Barian's face receded to the upper left quarter of her communications screen. A printed news
bulletin started scrolling across the right half.
"I told my system to monitor the Akara crisis and alert me if it picked up any major developments,"
Dr. Barian said. "Trans-Solar may not be as trustworthy as the stuff you people get through channels, but
it looks like it's a lot faster."
Captain Min had been wearing her working uniform while she dictated. Now her hands reached down
and automatically tightened the belt on her tunic. One of the purposes of military training, her father had
always claimed, was the development of a military alter-ego -- a limited personality that could take
control of your responses whenever you were confronted with realities that would have overwhelmed any
normal human. The surge of emotion reached a danger point, a circuit kicked in, and the hard, clear
responses of the professional officer or NCO replaced the messy turbulence of the human being cringing
inside the uniform.