At that point, Hawkes motioned to the sergeant-at-arms to come to the podium. Handing him the vid-pac, he turned back to the assembly and announced, "I shall be returning to the Martian embassy, where I will stay for the next two weeks. Then I shall be returning to Mars."
"Embassy?" came a confused cry. "Where is there a Martian embassy? And why would you be returning to Mars?"
Wearily, the ambassador picked up his papers, then said, "The embassy is in Wyoming, in the most beautiful part of the Absaroka mountain range. I'm sure Mick Carri can tell you where it is,"
Refolding his papers, Hawkes returned them to his inner jacket pocket, telling the crowd at the same time, "As to why I'll be returning off-world . . . well, ever since the elections . . . I suppose that's where I belong."
And then the first prime minister of Mars turned and left the stage. He walked slowly but straight backed, knowing that no matter how much this felt like an ending, it was really all just beginning.
EPILOGUE
"So," asked Martel, "what do you think of the news?"
Sitting down on the side porch, accepting a cup of coffee from Cook, Hawkes asked, "With all the news in the world right now, you wouldn't want to give an old man a clue, would you?"
"Mick Carri's little series of speeches?" When the prime minister merely rolled his eyes, she said, "He's making a big push to grab the presidential nomination. He gets it, it'll make it awfully hard to pin any crimes on him."
"Pinnin' crimes on a senator's like rubbin' fat on a hog," said Cook as she headed back into the kitchen. "What would be the point?"
Martel narrowed her eyes, giving the old woman a playfully evil look. Hawkes merely smiled. Sitting back in his chair, he took a long sip from his cup, then said, "I don't care what happens to him—what happens here— anymore. I really don't. Now that the ranch is Martian property, Clean Mountain can't touch it. If Carri tries to annex it, it's a declaration of war. He got into bed with CME and the Earth League just to get at me. The way things have been turned around on all of them, they've got a lot bigger problems on their hands than revenge for the moment."
"Does that mean you don't think things will end in war?"
Hawkes took a long time to answer. "I wish I had a good answer for you, but really . . . I don't know. I hope not. I hope the race can get past its usual, first solution for once." Hawkes tilted his head to one side. "I hope."
" 'Hope,' " quoted Martel, " 'of all ills that men endure/ The only cheap and universal cure.' "
"Abraham Crowley," answered the prime minister. Countering her cynical reference, he responded, " 'Everything that is done in the world is done by hope.' ''
"Martin Luther?" she guessed. He nodded, impressed. "I'd expect a churchman to put a good spin on the idea," she said. "Give me Ben Franklin any day."
" 'He that lives on hope will die fasting'?" When she nodded, he told her, "Shame on you. You're young. I'm the one that's supposed to be the old, embittered cynic. Can't you come up with one positive thought on the subject?"
"Oh, maybe," she said, standing up out of her chair. Stepping off the porch, trying hard to hide a devilish grin, she said, "Let me take a walk and think about it."
Hawkes watched her leave, wondering what she was up to. Knowing he would find out sooner or later, he decided to simply sit back quietly and try to enjoy his home while he was still there.
Emptying his head, leaving intrigue and war and all thoughts of the past few months behind, he turned his attention outward, enjoying the feel of the wind against his face. His mind filled with sensory images instead of facts and words—the smell of his fields, his trees, the feel of the wood of his porch under his boots, of the arm of his chair under his fingers, the simple sounds of his animals in the distant pasture, of the sun-grown life ripening all around him.
Closing his eyes, he brought his cup up to his nostrils. Inhaling deeply, he remembered how he had missed the smell of South American coffee. Yes, he thought, they had coffee on Mars. But it was hydroponically grown coffee. All of it from the same source. All of it tasting exactly the same.
"Small price," he whispered.
"What's a small price?" came Martel's voice from behind him.
Without turning, he told her, "Nothing, really. I was just thinking that there are a lot of things that I am going to miss when we return to Mars."
Without commenting, Martel simply recited,
" 'Hope' is the thing without feathers
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without words
And never stops—at all."
When Hawkes turned around toward her, not having even a guess as to where she had gotten the bit of verse, she said, "Emily Dickinson," and then handed him a large, obviously heavy cardboard box, saying, "Here. You shouldn't have to miss everything when you go back."
The prime minister took the box from her hands, raising one eyebrow as it shook in his hands. He rested it on the floor in front of him and was reaching to open its lid when it suddenly burst open of its own accord, forced upward by its occupant. As Hawkes pulled back, an awkward, big-pawed puppy pushed its way up and over the edge, stumbling into the surprised man's arms.
Pulling the puppy up into his lap, he tried to talk, but found his mouth would not work—his throat could not form any words. The puppy pushed its way up his chest, flopping against him, licking his face.
And deep inside the prime minister, something dark crumpled. The dog continued to clamber over him until it reached the point where its eyes met Hawkes's. The two souls searched each other for a long, open moment, and then, a flow of tears broke from the man's eyes, large, free-falling streams that splashed down across his cheeks and old leather vest.
The puppy pushed forward, licking at the running salt. Crushing the joyous dog to him, he stroked it and whispered to it and sobbed bitterly, finally weeping for all those fallen and gone.
Martel stepped away softly, leaving man and pup alone.
No matter what was going to happen, she thought, no matter what comes next, he deserves this.
Rounding the far corner of the ranch house, she looked up into the daytime sky, not able to see Mars at all. Then she whispered, "Hope, Benton? 'Hope is the universal liar.' "
And then she walked off toward the forest to take her last breath of pine.
Man O' War Page 24
