"Dickson, Gordon R - Childe Cycle 4 - 1971 - The Tactics of Mistake" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dickson Gordon R)

long second before he turned to the shipman.
"It's all right," he said, his deep, musical voice stilling the voice of the
other, instantly. "The colonel's just making use of his first-night privileges
to sit where he wants."
The shipman's face reddened. His hand dropped slowly from Cletus' shoulder.
Suddenly his size made him seem no longer large and impressive, but clumsy and
conspicuous.
"Yes, Mr. Secretary," he said stiffly, "I see. Sorry to have bothered you all …
"
He darted a glance of pure hatred at Pater Ten, which affected the little man no
more than the shadow of a rain cloud affects the glowing radiance of a white-hot
iron ingot; and, carefully avoiding the eyes of the other passengers, he turned
and walked from the lounge. The steward had already evaporated, at deCastries'
first words. Pater Ten slid into the seat he had vacated earlier, scowling at
Cletus.
"About the Exotic Enclave at St. Louis," Cletus said to Mondar—he did not seem
to be disturbed by what had just happened—"they've been very good about lending
me library materials for research."
"Oh?" Mondar's face was politely interested. "You're a writer, Colonel?"
"A scholar," said Cletus. His gray eyes fastened now on the Exotic. "I'm writing
volume four right now, of a twenty-volume work I started three years ago—on
tactics and strategical considerations. But never mind that now. May I meet the
rest of the people here?"
Mondar nodded. "I'm Mondar, as you say."
"Colonel Eachan Khan," he said, turning to the Dorsai at his right, "may I
introduce Lieutenant-Colonel Cletus Grahame of the Alliance forces?"
"Honored, Colonel," said Eachan Khan, in a clipped, old-fashioned British
accent.
"Honored to meet you, sir," said Cletus,
"And Colonel Khan's daughter, Melissa Khan," went on Mondar.
"Hello." Cletus smiled again at her.
"How do you do?" she said, coldly.
"Our host, Secretary Dow deCastries, you've already recognized," Mondar said.
"Mr. Secretary—Colonel Cletus Grahame."
"I'm afraid it's a little late to invite you to dinner, Colonel," said
deCastries deeply. "The rest of us have eaten." He beckoned the steward. "We can
offer you some wine."
"And, finally, the gentleman on the secretary's right," said Mondar. "Mr. Pater
Ten. Mr. Ten's got an eidetic memory, Colonel. You'll find he's got an
encyclopedic fund of knowledge on just about everything."
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ten," said Cletus. "Maybe I ought to arrange to borrow
you, instead of library materials, for my next research."
"Don't bother!" said Pater Ten, unexpectedly. He had a creaky, high-pitched, but
surprisingly carrying, voice. "I looked at your first three volumes—wild
theories, backed up by warmed-over military history. They must've been going to
kick you out of the Academy if you hadn't requested a transfer first. Anyway,
you're out. Now, who'll read you? You'll never finish a fourth book."
"I told you," said Mondar in the conversational pause that followed this small
verbal explosion. Cletus was gazing at the small man with a faint smile not
unlike that of deCastries, earlier. "Mr. Ten has an encyclopedic fund of