"James Doohan - Flight Engineer Volume 1-The Rising" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doohan James)

life, and sweet water, stuffed with ores and all good things. They’d hate
us, he thought. We’d be right up there with the Philistines, or worse.
 Whereas, normal people, like say, the denizens of a hell-world like
Wildcat, which was heaven compared to the Mollie homeworld, would
sell their grannies, their virtue, and their eyeteeth for the chance to
change planets. Heck, they’d sell their grannies for a decent vacation.
The fall of the Commonwealth could still happen, of course.
Scuttlebutt had it that the stockpiles of antihydrogen were sufficient for
only eighteen months of naval operations, a stockpile only sporadically
replaced by daring raids on Mollie processing plants. The newly
reopened synthetic antihydrogen plants were capable of producing
virtually nothing at ten times the cost.
“The plug’s out of the bathtub and there’s no more than a trickle
coming out of the tap,” one of Peter’s friends had said.
Raeder raised his glass in memory of that particular buddy, killed in
the same battle that had taken Peter’s hand, his Speed, and his glory.
He’d made four “kills” in that action, but the recording computer had
been destroyed by the heavy particle beam that tore him out of the sky.
Those four victories would have brought his total to seven, making him
the first and highest scoring ace of the war.
Never rains but it pours, he thought, not without humor. He’d had a
dream about it when he was recovering in the hospital. A crusty old
admiral was about to pin a medal on him for becoming an ace. Peter was
standing there proud as a peacock, when someone came hurtling onto the
stage screaming, “Stop! It’s a mistake. We’ve checked all his recordings
and they show him shooting down the same Mollie every time.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Raeder exclaimed.
“Gimme those,” the admiral growled, and grabbed the holostills from
the little man. Then he glared at Peter. “We had a cake baked for you,”
he said. “Decorated and everything. My wife ordered it. I had my mouth
all set for that cake. Now I can’t eat it.”
“But he’s lying,” Peter insisted. “That’s not proof, it’s only seven
identical photographs. The least you should do is review the recordings
themselves,” he pleaded.
“Nah! It doesn’t matter now,” the admiral grumped. “It’s all spoiled
anyway.” He turned and left the stage beside the little guy who’d handed
him the holos and clearly wanted them back. The admiral tossed them
into the air and they fluttered stageward.
Peter turned and the band was packing up its instruments, the audience
was pushing back their folding chairs, gathering their belongings and
departing as though this was a perfectly normal ending to the ceremony.
“But I did shoot them,” Raeder insisted.
“G’home,” the admiral shouted. “And take yer damn cake with ya.”
Then the stage lights went out and after a confused moment he woke up.
Loud, exuberant voices brought Peter’s head around. A gaggle of
fighter jocks had just come in, laughing and joking. They looked Raeder
over, noting his engineering tabs, and dismissed him, taking their seats at
a table and calling out their orders to the pretty bartender.
Peter turned back to the bar feeling slighted. Jeez! Was I that
arrogant?