black. Cardillo came in casual civilian slacks and a beautifully tailored Italian silk jacket. Through drinks and the first part of the dinner their conversation was light, inconsequential. Mostly reminiscences by two gray-haired submariners about men they had known, women they had chased, sea tales that grew with each retelling. But then:
"Damn shame," Cardillo muttered halfway through his entree of grilled eel.
The restaurant, one of the hundreds that had sprung up in Belem since the Brazilians had made the city their major spaceport, was on the waterfront. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the muddy Para River widened into the huge bay that eventually fed into the Atlantic. Hazard had spent his last day on Earth touring around the tropical jungle on a riverboat. The makeshift shanties that stood on stilts along the twisting mud-brown creeks were giving way to industrial parks and cinder-block housing developments.
Air-conditioning was transforming the region from rubber plantations to computerized information services.
The smell of cement dust blotted out the fragrance of tropical flowers. Bulldozers clattered in raw clearings slashed from the forest where stark steel frameworks of new buildings rose above the jungle growth. Children who had splashed naked in the brown jungle streams were being rounded up and sent to air-conditioned schools.
"What's a shame?" Hazard asked. "Seems to me these people are starting to do all right for the first time in their lives. The space business is making a lot of jobs around here."
Cardillo took a forkful of eel from his plate. It never got to his mouth.
"I don't mean them, Johnny. I mean us. It's a damn shame about us."
Hazard had never liked being called Johnny. His family had addressed him as Jon. His Navy associates knew him as Hazard and nothing else. A few very close friends used J.W.
"What do you mean?" he asked. His own plate was already wiped clean. The fish and its dark spicy sauce had been marvelous. So had the crisp-crusted bread.
"Don't you feel nervous about this whole IPF thing?"
Cardillo asked, trying to look earnest. "I mean, I can see Washington deciding to put boomers like your boats in mothballs, and the silo missiles, too. But the attack subs? Decommission our conventional weapons systems? Leave us disarmed?"
Hazard had not been in command of a missile submarine in more than three years. He had been allowed, even encouraged, to resign his commission after the hostage mess in Brussels.
"If you're not in favor of what the American government is doing, then why did you agree to serve in the Peacekeepers?"
Cardillo shrugged and smiled slightly. It was not a pleasant smile. He had a thin, almost triangular face with a low, creased brow tapering down to a pointed chin. His once-dark hair, now peppered with gray, was thick and wavy. He had allowed it to grow down to his collar. His deep brown eyes were always narrowed, crafty, focused so intently he seemed to be trying to penetrate through you.
There was no joy in his face, even though he was smiling; no pleasure. It was the smile of a gambler, a con artist, a used-car salesman.
"Well-1," he said slowly, putting his fork back down on the plate and leaning back in his chair, "you know the old saying, 'If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.'"
Hazard nodded, although he felt puzzled. He groped for Cardillo's meaning. "Yeah, I guess playing space cadet up there will be better than rusting away on the beach."
"Playing?" Cardillo's dark brows rose slightly. "We're not playing, Johnny. We're in this for keeps."
"I didn't mean to imply that I don't take my duty to the IPF seriously," Hazard answered.
For an instant Cardillo seemed stunned with surprise.
Then he threw his head back and burst into laughter.
"Jesus Christ, Johnny," he gasped. "You're so straight-arrow it's hysterical."
Hazard frowned but said nothing. Cardillo guffawed and banged the table with one hand. Some of the diners glanced their way. They
"Damn shame," Cardillo muttered halfway through his entree of grilled eel.
The restaurant, one of the hundreds that had sprung up in Belem since the Brazilians had made the city their major spaceport, was on the waterfront. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the muddy Para River widened into the huge bay that eventually fed into the Atlantic. Hazard had spent his last day on Earth touring around the tropical jungle on a riverboat. The makeshift shanties that stood on stilts along the twisting mud-brown creeks were giving way to industrial parks and cinder-block housing developments.
Air-conditioning was transforming the region from rubber plantations to computerized information services.
The smell of cement dust blotted out the fragrance of tropical flowers. Bulldozers clattered in raw clearings slashed from the forest where stark steel frameworks of new buildings rose above the jungle growth. Children who had splashed naked in the brown jungle streams were being rounded up and sent to air-conditioned schools.
"What's a shame?" Hazard asked. "Seems to me these people are starting to do all right for the first time in their lives. The space business is making a lot of jobs around here."
Cardillo took a forkful of eel from his plate. It never got to his mouth.
"I don't mean them, Johnny. I mean us. It's a damn shame about us."
Hazard had never liked being called Johnny. His family had addressed him as Jon. His Navy associates knew him as Hazard and nothing else. A few very close friends used J.W.
"What do you mean?" he asked. His own plate was already wiped clean. The fish and its dark spicy sauce had been marvelous. So had the crisp-crusted bread.
"Don't you feel nervous about this whole IPF thing?"
Cardillo asked, trying to look earnest. "I mean, I can see Washington deciding to put boomers like your boats in mothballs, and the silo missiles, too. But the attack subs? Decommission our conventional weapons systems? Leave us disarmed?"
Hazard had not been in command of a missile submarine in more than three years. He had been allowed, even encouraged, to resign his commission after the hostage mess in Brussels.
"If you're not in favor of what the American government is doing, then why did you agree to serve in the Peacekeepers?"
Cardillo shrugged and smiled slightly. It was not a pleasant smile. He had a thin, almost triangular face with a low, creased brow tapering down to a pointed chin. His once-dark hair, now peppered with gray, was thick and wavy. He had allowed it to grow down to his collar. His deep brown eyes were always narrowed, crafty, focused so intently he seemed to be trying to penetrate through you.
There was no joy in his face, even though he was smiling; no pleasure. It was the smile of a gambler, a con artist, a used-car salesman.
"Well-1," he said slowly, putting his fork back down on the plate and leaning back in his chair, "you know the old saying, 'If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.'"
Hazard nodded, although he felt puzzled. He groped for Cardillo's meaning. "Yeah, I guess playing space cadet up there will be better than rusting away on the beach."
"Playing?" Cardillo's dark brows rose slightly. "We're not playing, Johnny. We're in this for keeps."
"I didn't mean to imply that I don't take my duty to the IPF seriously," Hazard answered.
For an instant Cardillo seemed stunned with surprise.
Then he threw his head back and burst into laughter.
"Jesus Christ, Johnny," he gasped. "You're so straight-arrow it's hysterical."
Hazard frowned but said nothing. Cardillo guffawed and banged the table with one hand. Some of the diners glanced their way. They
Similar Books
