"Jason M. Hardy - BattleTech - MechWarrior - Dark Age 13 - The Scorpion Jar" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hardin Clement)You only needed sufficient money—or a sufficient number of favors owed—and sufficient patience,
combined with decades of practice at standing back and taking the long view. Anyone could have done it, given those qualities. The next part, though, would be much harder. He had to present his mosaic in such a way that even the dimmest Senators and Knights and—especially—Paladins could see and understand the picture he created. Not to single out any individuals, but if the truth were told, some of his comrades-in-arms had always been more notable for courage and fighting skill than for brains. Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html So he couldn’t just lay out the evidence and let the facts speak for themselves. He had to lead his audience step by obvious step to the right conclusion. This would be his legacy to The Republic of the Sphere, one last act performed for the sake of the dream of Devlin Stone, and it had to be done just right. The forthcoming election could hinge on how well he did his job, on how many of the Paladins understood what he now knew. It was more than simply arranging the facts and ideas; he had to find the exact right words and tone, and put everything in the right order. He’d never been much of a man for talk, and not much of a diplomat either, although the newsreaders now called him a statesman—a reward, he supposed, for having lived so long. He was a MechWarrior first and always, and the task of moving others to his way of thinking through convincing argument was a far different task than piloting a ’Mech. his chair. Then he slept more deeply, as the chair—a marvel of modern design and medical engineering—adjusted its contours to his slumbering form. Morning came, bringing with it daylight streaming past cracks in the closed curtains, and he woke with a start to a cheerful voice saying, “Good morning!” Both the voice and the good cheer belonged to Elena Ruiz, the housekeeper (though he and she both knew quite well that she was more nurse than housekeeper) who looked after his suite of rooms. She was a pleasant sight for an old man’s eyes, even in her plain white uniform—dark hair, olive skin, and a face always open and ready to smile. Her greeting was followed by a blaze of light as she drew the curtains mercilessly open, letting in the bright desert sun. Victor responded with a good-natured grumble. “Woman, they pay you to keep me healthy, not to kill me.” “Hah,” she said. “You’ll outlive all of us. And if you slept in your bedroom like most people, you wouldn’t have to worry about me opening the curtains in the morning.” “I was working,” he said. The display on his data screen was on and glowing, bearing out his words. He frowned briefly. The display should have followed his lead and gone into sleep mode sometime last night. It must have been brought back to life by some vibration or bump to the desk. Victor shut down the file. He would work on it again later, after the coming of night once more brought privacy. Then he turned to Elena Ruiz. |
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