"Feintuch,.David.-.Seafort.05.-.Voices.Of.Hope.Txt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Feintuch David)

had to keep him in his place; he was only twelve. I tried to break another
code, failed.

"Try the base eleven algorithms; your Dad likes weird numbers." P.T. flopped
into a seat. "Careful he doesn't catch you."

"He's with your Old Man."

Glancing at the door, Philip frowned. "Path's in one of his moods. Someone
told him the Senate wants to reorganize Devon Academy." 4 "God forbid."

"Path has a thing for tradition." P.T. rested his chin on his hands, looking
glum. "He and Mom are fighting,"

"Again?"

"They try to hide it." His face twisted. "I'm just a kit."

Dad's birthday in base eleven cracked another file. It was only next year's
budget; nothing of interest. The Senators merely kept the Old Man informed as a
courtesy.

"Need help with homework?" Philip sounded hopeful. He studied with private
tutors, and was dumb enough to miss the drudgery of the common school Dad made
me attend.

"I never need help." Not true, but no reason to tell him. Better if he thought I
was doing him a favor by letting him write some of my essays. How unzark, his
being ahead of me. Had to be his mother's genes; couldn't be the Old Man's, I
hesitated. "I gotta write a history report by Wednesday. Anything
government-related in the last hundred years,"

"Zarks." He brightened. "Your room?"

I said sourly, "If your Mom won't have a kitten—'*

"Bail out!"

I slapped the screenblank just as the office door opened, Dad shot me a
skeptical glance. "What are you up to?"

I put on my most sullen look. "P.T. was in the other chair, so I used yours. So
sorry." I got to my feet.

"Hi, Philip," As I hoped. Dad chose to ignore me.

"Good afternoon, sir." P.T. stood. The sodding joeykit was always polite, except
with me, because he knew I'd wipe his face in the grass if he tried it.

Not that he had much choice, with adults. His Mom and the Old Man buzzed him