"James Tiptree Jr. - Yanqui Doodle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tiptree James Jr)

The boy adds something, scuffing his toe.

"Only he is worried about his Mama," the interpreter goes on. This is something Biller can relate to.
He pats the boy's shoulder comfortingly and smiles.

"He is afraid she will sell his motorcycle," the interpreter finishes.

Several Libras are listening to the exchange. Senator Biller looks round at their young faces and tells
them what fine young men they are, what a good thing they are doing evicting Marxist-Leninism and
saving their country for DemocracyтАФall of which the interpreter seems to shorten unduly.

Then there is a bark, and all come smartly to attention, faces blank. The senator moves on.

Meanwhile his colleagues, some of whom could speak Spanish, were likewise mingling with the
troops, forming invaluable first-hand impressions of the state of the minds and hearts of the people to
whose aid their country had sent her armed might and the blood of her sons. Afterwards Senator
Moverman exclaimed, "Fine brave boys! To think they'd be fighting Soviet gunships bare-handed if we
hadn't sent them aid!"

Another legislator inquired as to whether they had captured many Cubans. A look of intense wariness
came over his informants' faces. "Fidelistas very bad. Very bad soldier." It turned out that they meant
"very dangerous."

"Where are they? Can we see some of the Cubans you captured?"

There was a quick confab, and somebody said "Fidelisto!" and laughed in a private way that gave
Senator Biller grave qualms about the Geneva Conventions. A traitorous thought crossed his mind, about
other boy-men in other uniforms, sent abroad to die for Soviet geopolitik. He shrugged it away. War is
evil. Lying down under communist tyranny is worse.

It was at this point that old Senator Longmast had indicated his desire to address the assembled
Libra and U.S. troops, and got into his brief explanation of What They Were Fighting For that so
terminally delayed them. When he was reminded that they had a hospital to visit, he said "We owe it to
them," and went on.

Now the party is trying to make up lost time on the San Izquierda road, which features a plethora of
potholes and other obstacles. At the moment they have come onto a herd of scraggly cattle trapped
between the steep banks of the mountain road.

The cars stop, the party gets out to stretch. Below them is a superb view of San Izquierda in the
evening sun, nestled around its almost-intact cathedral. Shadowy mountain ridges, forested by pines,
stretch away on either hand. Senator Biller reaches for his camera, as do others.

They are at a small crossroad. On the other road a rusty country bus has also stopped, is letting out
people. The scene is very peaceful. Tropical birds are making exotic evening sounds. There is only the
far-off rumble of heavy trucks on another road; a convoy, probably.

Beside the Senator there looms up what seems to be a self-propelled great load of sticks. It turns out
to be on the head of a small old woman. Biller reflects that only weeks ago she and the town had been