Man O' War

by William Shatner

  "Oh, no? Pity," said Hawkes, making no attempt to mask his sarcasm. "Well, let me tell you. The last aide the corps appointed for me turned out to be a traitor. To me, to the Earth, I'm not sure which, exactly. But he allowed a party of murderers entry to my home and helped them try to kill me."

  The woman's eyes went wide again. Hawkes noted the reaction, but he also knew it didn't really tell him anything. She could be shocked out of genuine surprise, or because she did not expect him to know Stine was a traitor.

  "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 and just 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. Turning to the mirror again, he smiled to himself, then asked, "All right by you? Good enough?"

  "Good enough," he answered himself. His mirror image assumed a sarcastic look, then added, "For an old man with no dog."

  Hawkes's face darkened. Suddenly he hated the thought of the dinner again, of leaving his room, of doing anything except finding out who had set him up.

  Taking one last look into the mirror, he told himself, "You know, I don't see you being much of a comfort to me in my old age."

  And then he simply turned and left the room, giving his reflection no chance to retaliate.

  WELL, THOUGHT HAWKES, LOOKING AROUND THE TABLE, I've been to worse functions in my time.

  "Okay, Mr. Ambassador, let's hear it. How does our table here on the Bulldog stack up?"

  "Captain," Hawkes answered, "I'm a bit of a culinary dabbler myself, so I'm always willing to take into account every factor for or against a chef."

  "Uh-oh," interjected Carl Jarolic, an environmental researcher. "This sounds bad, Captain."

  "He's going to tramp you, Captain," joked Pensaval, a cost containment expert headed up to check over some of Red Planet, Inc.'s less productive branches.

  "No, no," the ambassador offered. "Quite the contrary. On one of my first excursions around the ship, I inspected the Bulldog's galley from top to bottom. Seeing what our chef was up against, as far as I'm concerned, preparing anything beyond beans and mush down in that hole would take a genius and a saint." Hawkes lifted his glass, giving the captain an honest nod of the head.

  "I compliment your kitchen crew, sir." The ambassador took a sip of his drink, then added, "If I didn't have my own genius and saint, I might try to steal yours."

  The captain beamed, saluting Hawkes with his glass before taking his own healthy slug. Resting his glass on the table, the captain then said, "I'm glad to find you like the food, Mr. Ambassador. But tell me, what do you think of the trip so far?"

  "Tranquil," answered Hawkes dip
lomatically.

  "Is that a euphemism for 'slow'?" asked Glenia Waters, the wife of a Red Planet manager returning from a stay on Earth.

  "I guess it could be taken that way," Hawkes admitted with an honest grin.

  "I see the ambassador is straining to get to Mars and down to business," said Colin Harrod, one of the Bulldog's officers.

  Tracey Sherman, another officer at the table, asked, "What do you think, Mr. Ambassador? Does it look as if you'll be able to settle this quickly?"

  "You want my honest answer, Mr. Sherman—or the one that would look best in print?"

  "Oh, please," interjected Jarolic, "favor us with a bit of honesty. Fresh air is so rare in space."

  Hawkes nodded and gave the researcher a thin smile while everyone else laughed politely. Having spent no small amount of time during the trip so far going over the facts as they were known to Washington, the ambassador summed up how he felt, telling the assembly, "No, Mr. Sherman, Mr. Jarolic . . . I don't think a quick settlement is possible."

  "Why not?" asked the captain.

  "I'm sure the facts have shown Mr. Hawkes that the workers are too unreasonable to be dealt with quickly."

  "Actually, Mr. Jarolic," answered the ambassador, a tiny bit taken aback by the man's bitterness, "I've found my information so incomplete that I plan to put a great deal of time into assessing the situation for myself."

  The researcher pursed his lips, put off by Hawkes's answer. Before Jarolic could comment, Hawkes added, "To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure I trust much of the data I've received so far. This is a new kind of situation for me. I'm used to having everything at my fingertips. Instantaneous communications. Now I'm working with reports that are weeks old. Weeks. Coming from people whose honesty I can't even begin to gauge . . ."

  "Because they're just low-class labor, Mr. Hawkes?"

  "Because they're from a culture I've never encountered before. They live on another planet, Mr. Jarolic. And another thing . . ."

  Hawkes had been surprised by the environmentalist's attacking statements. He had wanted to answer, but before he could, Waters cut him and everyone else off.

  "Oh, now, stop. Stop. I'm going to hear nothing but this kind of talk once I get back home." Staring at the others imploringly, she said, "Dessert is on the way. Everyone has a drink. Let's not get on about business." She gave everyone a moment to turn her words over in their minds, then added, "Let's play a game."

  Jarolic smiled. Hawkes held himself from sighing. Mar-tel and the captain shared mixed feelings.

  "Let's play Quote."

  The crowd reacted with varying degrees of enthusiasm. When Hawkes protested that he did not know the game, everyone agreed that it was easy and fun and that he should try. Martel said, "The rules are very simple, sir."

  Hawkes nodded, adding his own commentary: "They always are," he told her. His first reaction was to call it a night, but suddenly, something within him changed. The little voice inside he always trusted told him to stay. His mind thus changed, he said, "All right. Somebody explain these simple rules to me."

  "Certainly," Jarolic offered, something in his manner seeming less hostile than before. "We pick a topic—nature, God, taxation—whatever. Then, one of us will throw out the name of a famous person. Let's say the subject is . . . 'the enemy,' and the first name called is Richard Nixon. Everyone then tries to come up with a quote from Nixon on that subject. Whoever comes up with one gets the point and gets to throw out the next name."

  " 'Those who hate you don't win unless you hate them—and then you destroy yourself.' " Mrs. Waters beamed at the others. Jarolic recognized the quote and smiled.

  Then he put his hand to his brow and nodded his head, saying, "Very good. I'd say you've been practicing."

  "Oh, you know, so little to do, so much time to do it in." She turned to Hawkes, telling him in an apologetically explanatory voice, "I have a lot of time to read on Mars."

  "I think Mr. Jarolic is applauding your formidable powers of retention," the ambassador retorted pleasantly. "Which certainly have me willing to throw in the towel here and now."

  Hawkes feigned rising to leave, but Waters stretched out her hand toward him, begging, "Oh no, please stay. Please try."

  "Come on. Ambassador," the captain added. "After all, you can't win them all."

  "Well, now there's a bitter truth," answered Hawkes, his eyes narrowing. Deciding that perhaps his little voice was right and that he had stayed in his room a bit too much, he continued, saying, "But I suppose a round or two wouldn't hurt. If you promise to go easy on an old man."

  "First topic, diplomats and diplomacy," said Mrs. Waters quickly. When Hawkes made to protest, she said, "Now, Ambassador, you asked us to take it easy on you. How much more generous could we be?"

  Hawkes smiled. The woman was somewhat younger than he—he guessed her age to be somewhere in her mid to late forties. She was plump and had worn more jewelry than the night called for, but something within her easy manner and sincerity had touched the ambassador. Raising both his eyebrows to her in mock surrender, he said, "Well . . . diplomats it is."

  "Oliver Herford," said Pensaval immediately.

  " 'Diplomacy: lying in state,' " offered the captain.

  Everyone at the table applauded politely. Pensaval nodded, conceding the point to the captain. The older man nodded, then threw out a name of his own. "Alexander Woollcott."

  " 'Babies in silk hats playing with dynamite,' " Hawkes responded. Again the table applauded. Hawkes shut his eyes for a moment, then said, "Peter Ustinov."

  Everyone stared blankly. Sherman scratched at his head as if he had an idea who the person named might be. Hawkes gave them all a hint. "He was an actor from England . . . died about sixty years ago."

  " 'A diplomat these days,' " started Martel, haltingly, " 'is nothing more than a headwaiter . . . who's allowed to sit down occasionally.' "

  Everyone laughed politely.

  "Close enough," the ambassador granted. His aide smiled, then offered a name of her own.

  "American president John F. Kennedy."

  " 'Let us never negotiate out of fear,' " responded Jar-olic, " 'but let us never fear to negotiate.' " When Martel conceded that the environmental researcher had taken the point, he smiled and threw out another name: "Trygve Lie."

  Everyone stared blankly except Hawkes. He gave the table a polite handful of seconds, then said, " 'A real diplomat is one who can cut his neighbor's throat without having his neighbor notice it."

  Everyone clapped politely again. Hawkes gave the table the name James Reston to chew on. Jarolic swallowed the bit, responding, " 'This is the devilish thing about foreign affairs: they are foreign and will not always conform to our whims.' " Not even waiting for acknowledgment that he had gotten the quote correct, Jarolic gave out another name: "Admiral Bill Kimball."

  Not waiting either, the ambassador responded immediately, " 'He lied, I knew he lied, and he knew I lied. That was diplomacy.' "

  Waters gave out a gasp at the speed with which the two men were playing each other. The rest of the party settled back, seeing the obvious, changing over from participants to observers. Having taken the point, Hawkes offered, "Joe Stalin, Soviet dictator during—"

  Jarolic cut the ambassador off, answering, " 'Sincere diplomacy is no more possible than dry water or wooden iron.' " The environmental researcher took a quick breath, then threw out, "Daniele Vare."

  " 'Diplomacy is the art of letting someone have your way.' "

  Hawkes watched Jarolic's face as the man granted the ambassador his point. He had known the nasty quotes would have to start coming sooner or later. The art of diplomacy was not one well understood by the general public. Like politicians and lawyers, abuses by the worst members of the profession made everyone suspect.

  But Hawkes was not worried about having to dance around some outsider's snide attacks. Fencing with loudmouths and bullies was standard operating procedure for any career corps person. Every formal dinne
r managed to produce at least one. Perhaps, thought the ambassador, Jarolic's just this party's designated boor.

  As lightly as he wished he could take the game, however, Hawkes had a sneaking suspicion that there was more to it than that. The ambassador had attended too many dinners and battled verbally with far too many opponents to not have a better understanding of such situations. Jarolic seemed openly hostile. The corners of his eyes were too meanly crinkled. His smile, his eyes, his rate of breathing—everything indicated to Hawkes's well-trained mind that the man was on the attack.

  Why? wondered the ambassador, staring at Jarolic. What's your problem?

  Hawkes nodded politely as the researcher granted the last point to the ambassador. At the same time, one of the captain's officers came up to the table. Immediately Hawkes's attention was stolen away. Although no one else at the table seemed aware of it, there was a tension in this man's approach that no member of the crew had displayed throughout the entire trip.

  Everyone waited politely for the captain to receive his message. The others around the table were all curious, of course. Far beyond curious, Hawkes felt himself slipping over into apprehension as he watched the captain's face. The man was trying hard to keep himself from betraying what he was being told. He was not particularly good at it.

  It's not internal, thought the ambassador, watching the two men talk in whispers at the other end of the table. This is nothing he and the crew can control. It's external.

  Hawkes ran over the possibilities in his mind: communications interference, meteors, a distress call, a comet . . . he knew it was none of those. Watching the captain tighten his face and narrow his eyes, the ambassador's fingers curled around the hilt of his sword.

  Pirates, he thought.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," said the captain, standing from his chair, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to return to your quarters." Moving his head a fraction of an inch to the left, then back to the right, he indicated that his officers were to join him, saying, "Pensaval, Sherman, Harrod, you're all with me."