"Feintuch,.David.-.Seafort.06.-.Patriarchs.Hope.Txt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Feintuch David)

The system worked well, overall. Of course, none of the selectees must have any
idea he'd been chosen to ripen in the fleet, else he wouldn't take his shipside
duties seriously. For that I needed the cooperation of Academy's staff, and of
course I had it They too wanted their minions to mature as young midshipmen, and
if mat weren't enough, none cared to risk a SecGen's enmity.

Still, I found the selection process uncomfortably reminiscent of Final Cull,
the miserable job of choosing who, among the myriad of applicants, was to attend
Academy. One of my great pleasures as SecGen had been to return to the Navy the
long-sought privilege of selecting its own officer candidates.

Today, for two hours, Hazen, Arlene, and I reviewed files with the staff
sergeants, noting which youngsters showed promise.

Over the years Arlene and I had developed a fine working relationship. By my
authority, she sat in on many of the conferences I was required to endure. Here,
at Academy, her views were particularly valuable; we'd been cadets together and
shared a knowledge and love of the Navy.

I opened another folder. "What about—"

The door flew open. "Commandant!" A sergeant, his breath coining hard. A
red-haired midshipman was close behind.

Hazen reared up. "How dare you burst in like—"

"We couldn't reach you; your caller was set to 'don't disturb/ We've had an, uh,
accident Suit training, the pressure room. Rve cadets..."

I grimaced, recalling cadet days. First, Sarge had taught us how to suit up.
We'd endured his drills several days in a row, skylarking when his eye wasn't on
us. Then, one day, after suiting, Sarge sent us one by one into a foggy room
with an airlock at each end. About half of us, when we emerged, turned green.
The other half had known how to seal their suits properly.

The five cadets who'd gotten a whiff of the gas would suffer no more man a day's
sore stomach and the indignity of losing their lunch. A tough lesson, but far
more gentle than that of unforgiving space.

"Take them to sickbay, Oregon." Hazen shot me an apologetic glance. "I'm sorry,
Mr. SeeGen,"

"Sir, two are dead. The rest... the medics are working on them, but—n

"Oh, Lord God." My voice was strained.

The Commandant blinked. "Impossible! How? What..."

**I don't know!" Oregon sounded near