Before any of the assembly could break away, the ambassador warned the remaining delegates, "And, please, don't any of the rest of you get the idea that I think the rest of you are angels. You're all simply bickering rather than even beginning to attempt to work out any kind of agreement."
Closing his eyes, covering his face with one hand, Hawkes paused for a moment. Then he opened his eyes again, glaring out over his hand, saying, "Frankly, I'm tired of it. And so I'm warning all of you, if I don't see some kind of real effort being made tomorrow, I'm going to wash my hands of the lot of you."
His eyes narrowing, Hawkes focused his attention on the back wall, glazing his eyes in just the right manner to make every man in the room think he was staring directly at him. Then, filling his voice with dark, raw threat, he told them all, "And if any of you thinks that means you'll be free to do what you want, to strike, to bring in troops, to wash the entire planet with blood and plunge the Earth into desperation as food and raw materials disappear, think again. You people remember . . . I'm the governor here. If I don't see some attitude adjustments in the morning, I'm going to start issuing some executive orders. And if that happens, I promise you there isn't a one of you here who will be happy with the results.
"Not one."
And then Hawkes turned and walked out of the room, putting as much steel into his stride as possible. Half of the move was directed toward showing those at the table that he had become as rigid as he could. The other half was simply to keep him on course. He knew if he bent at all, he would turn around and lash out at the assembly, telling them what he truly felt in the most basic terms. That would be very counterproductive.
Martel followed him quickly, not allowing a trace of what she felt to show to the group. Catching up to him in the hallway outside his chambers, she said, "I know since it was your idea that the answer will be yes, but I thought I'd ask anyway . . . was that a good move back there?"
"Maybe," answered Hawkes, his tone a subtle mix of confusion and anger. He indexed his door open, motioning for Martel to precede him, saying, "It was the best I had to offer."
"Sir, you've kept other warring factions from each other's throats for months on end. We haven't been here a week and a half and these people have you climbing the walls."
Martel entered and took the seat she had begun to think of as hers. Crossing her legs, she bowed her head for a moment, then pulled it up again, asking, "What's so different here?"
"Dina," answered Hawkes, surprising her by using her first name, "I wish I knew. I really do. Oh, I can guess. Maybe I'm just getting old and can't suffer fools as gladly as I used to. Maybe I don't want to be remembered by history as the man who destroyed civilization throughout the solar system."
"I don't think—"
"Don't think what? That war could come out of this? Interplanetary war? Ships being launched against each other—not across rivers or lakes or even oceans . . . but across the gulfs of space? Don't you realize what we're talking about here?"
Martel shrank back slightly in her chair. Hawkes had grown loud, his nerves raw. He had not frightened her, but in her concern she pulled in on herself, giving him the stage to work out his fears. Curious and a bit frightened by what he might say, she sat back and listened as he continued.
"This wouldn't be like any kind of war we've ever seen," he told her. "If the Martian supply chain gets cut off, forget the raw materials. Forget the steel and plastic and thread and glass and everything else. No one'll even notice that. And do you know why? Because they'll be too busy trying to find something to eat."
The ambassador crossed the room, heading for his luggage. Reaching down under his shirts, he pulled out the single bottle of Jack Daniel's he had packed back on Earth that until then had remained untouched. Staring at it for a moment, he put it aside and said, "If the food barges stop shipping—if the colonists stop production, or explode the vats—there'll be no stopping it. We've both read the projections . . . even at their best, it won't take two weeks for every scrap of food to disappear from the face of the Earth. Millions will be dead by the end of the first month. Billions by the end of the second. Billions!"
Hawkes took another look at the fat, square bottle of sour mash next to him. Turning away again, he said, "Worldwide plague, along with cannibalism, will be the least of what we can expect. Don't forget, we're talking about out-of-atmosphere warfare. For the first time in over a century, for the first time since we discovered their true horror . . . man will feel free to use nuclear weapons again. Why not? For once, the enemy doesn't even breathe the same air as we do. Who cares what happens to bastards like that?"
Martel stared, saying nothing. There was nothing she could say. She had no arguments to hold up to Hawkes's logic . . . not even any suggestions. It had been a century and a quarter since mankind had exploded a nuclear device to take life—well over half a century since anyone had had any serious fears about their ever being used again.
Now, she
