"And, you ask, how did he die? 1 shot him myself."
"I see, sir," answered the woman, visibly shaken.
"Good," responded Hawkes coldly. Turning his back on the woman, he said, "So, as you now can easily understand, I'm just trying to keep one of us from getting shot in the back."
Before she could stop herself, the young woman asked, "Is that where you shot Stine?"
Hawkes's head jerked imperceptibly. Then, after a moment's pause, he smiled. He did not know if he could trust her, but he had to admit, he liked her spirit. Deciding to give the woman a chance to prove herself, he told her, "Let's just say I hit what I aimed for. But, all that aside— what do you think? Would you like to turn around when we reach Mars and head back to your husband? I could invoke clause 34.Y: with one aide dead, I can just deem it too dangerous for any unnecessary personnel."
"I understand that you don't have any need for me— that you don't trust me or like me—"
"No, no. I never said I didn't like you."
"I guess that's something, isn't it?" she asked. Continuing on, she said, "Unless you have strenuous objections, sir, I would like to stay on. After all," she added, backing through the doorway, "you just might need those files analyzed, or some batteries charged."
Martel disappeared out into the hall, closing the door behind her. After she was gone, Hawkes stared at the door for a long while. Then, finally, he turned away, crossing back to his desk.
Maybe, he thought. Maybe.
Then he looked at the old picture of Disraeli he had posted over the desk, felt his hands tremble, and returned to his work.
11
THE TRIP WAS ALMOST OVER. THE BULLDOG WAS LESS than three days out from Mars. Of course, everyone on board was still buzzing over traveling with the famous Benton Hawkes. Martel had not helped the situation any, doing everything she could to pull him out among the other passengers. The ambassador had gritted his teeth and made most of the appearances under the heading of "playing the game." He did not like it, however.
Hawkes suffered through, trying to remain as pleasant as he could. Small talk with the business types, avoiding strategy discussions with the labor negotiators headed toward the same table he was, nodding his head as technicians spouted reams of jargon . . . etc., etc.
Normally it was all grist for the mill. But not this time. Hawkes had fallen into the worst place any diplomat could land: for the first time in his career he was caught in a situation he could not help but take personally. He tried to maintain a detached perspective, but he could manage to do so for only increasingly shorter stretches.
He found his nerves growing frayed. Rather than let them show, however, long before each affair ended, Hawkes simply managed to find some pretense that would allow him to retreat back to his stateroom. Staring into his mirror, Hawkes worked on his tie, thinking, I should just stay here . . . not even bother to go. Cut out the middle man. Avoid having to look for an excuse by just taking the damn tie off and going to sleep.
Or do another set of sit-ups or push-ups. Space travel kills tone, he reminded himself. Much better for us than more ship stores' processed pate.
Well, then again, he reminded himself, you never know. The clue we're looking for might be out there in the dining room somewhere, just waiting to fall off some fumble-minded fool's tongue.
Oh sure, he chided himself, that's always been the caliber of people we get to deal with . . . fumble-minded fools.
Finishing with his tie, the ambassador silenced his mind, tired of the endless debating of his possible next moves. Whatever is going to happen is what is going to happen. So shut up andjust get going, all right?
Stepping back from his mirror, he dropped his hands to his sides and inspected his look for the evening. Black three-piece, braid-and-ribbon fruit salad in place, tie straight, boots clean, creases sharp . . . "Ready enough, I guess," he sighed.
That night's function was dinner at the captain's table. Hawkes did not want to attend, but a lifetime of doing things he did not want to—with a smile on his face, no less—got him washed and shaved and into his formal suit. As he inspected himself in the mirror, he nodded with weary resignation. He hated everything about being on the Bulldog—about being in space—everything except the fact that being there was getting him closer to the answers he wanted. Trying to shove aside his hate, he buckled on his ambassadorial sword, thinking, Even still remember how to use one of these?
His palm around the grip, Hawkes grinned at himself in the mirror, daring himself to withdraw the blade. Taking the challenge, he pulled the weapon from its scabbard with one quick motion.
His hand extended the blade automatically, sweeping the air in front of him, extending his field of safety. His eye sighted along the blade's fuller groove, his mind using the image to replay past sparring partners for him. He lunged, stepped back, lunged again. Feeling his blood rush, he made a sweeping cut across the room, doubled back before an enemy could take advantage, then filled the air with a series of carving figure eights.
Then, in full extension, he stopped short. Holding himself and the blade rigid, he felt age in the muscles such activity called into play, muscles not called upon for these things in too long. The ambassador dropped his pose and then repeated the set of movements. He felt heat under his collar. His breath came in larger gulps.
Stopping abruptly, Hawkes's fingers found the end of his scabbard. Bringing his sword hand up past his head, he reversed the weapon's direction and then thrust it back into its usual home.
