[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
The sea was sluggish, shiny-surfaced but heaving. The sky was cloudless but hazy, and the firebelt
hung across the high southern sky like the bridge to hell.
Captain Lee Crane stopped outside the Admiral's suite and tapped on the door. "Come in!" said a
voice, and he entered.
"You wanted me, Ad oh! Hi."
Commander Emery took one of his feet off the Admiral's desk, swung around in the Admiral's
swivel chair, and put both his feet up on the opposite corner. The Captain grinned at him. Emery was,
in Crane's mind's eye, the original Shaggy Man. There was an indefinable quality about the man that
always called the word up. It had nothing to do with his appearance, really. Starched, smoothed,
pressed (none of which he was at the moment) he would still seem shaggy. Perhaps it was the big-dog
friendliness of the man, perhaps his utterly confident lack of respect for formality. He was a man who
did not need straight ruled lines and sharp creases to comfort himself in an uncertain world. "Hi, Lee.
The O.O.M.'s brushing his teeth or something. Sit you down some."
Crane sat on the edge of the settle. "What's the occasion?"
"Ways and means. You know Harriman Nelson. He likes to have things all nice and tidy. He
never did get permission from anybody to make this trip and shoot this bird."
"Looks like permission is first-place, hard to come by and second-place, sort of an empty
gesture."
"Not to the O.O.M. He didn't mind spitting in the eye of those UN characters nor the New York
police. Damn them," he intoned passionately, then dropped the passion and went on in his easy-going
rumble. "Question of jurisdiction. This isn't Navy, this pigboat, or even Government, if it comes down
to that; the Bureau of Marine Exploration, you might say, directs it, but when you come right down to
it it was created as a land tool of Harriman Nelson. This tail wags that dog."
"So really, what's the problem? In fact and actuality, Nelson's the big wheel. He bought it, built
it, paid for it and he bosses it. Why doesn't he just look in the mirror and say 'Hm?' and then nod his
head and say, 'Uh-huh.' "
Emery laughed. "He would, Lee, he would, if it were any kind of an operation but this. Also if he
were any other kind of a man than what he is. But he's Navy retired Navy, sure: an out-and-out
civilian, when you come right down to it, but Navy for all that; it's the way he thinks, the way he
feels, the way he is. And if you could define the indefinable 'real Navy', or at least find the lowest
common denominator for the whole sea-going soldier-boy business, you'd find that from the three-day
Annapolis boot with hay in his hair, clear on up the layers of legend where live ninety-year-old retired
five-star admirals, you'd find that they had one thing in common they worked for somebody. Now
that's so self-evident up through the ranks that it seems silly to mention it, and so overlooked at the
very top that most people wouldn't even realize what you were talking about." Emery acrobatically
fumbled a hopelessly beat-up pipe out of his right pants pocket, and a tattered oilskin pouch out of his
left rear pocket, and a jet lighter out of his left pants pocket, and a knife out of his watch pocket, all
without disturbing the feet, ankle upon ankle, which one heel-point supported on the extreme corner
of the Admiral's desk. "And yet the fact that a high admiral is a subordinate is a thing that means a
great deal more, perhaps, than anything else to such a man. Two reasons: one, conditioning. An
admiral is by definition a long-term bedfellow of the naval attitude, and I say bedfellow advisedly; he
lives with it, sleeps with it. Two: As he climbs the long hill, there are a lot of guys up there ahead of
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him from the bottom it looks like that mob we saw on the plaza in front of St. Peter's. But the
higher they go, the fewer there are, and when he's spent most of a lifetime getting absolutely as high
as he can go, nobody can be surprised that in seeing only one man between himself and the sky that
he preoccupies himself pretty completely with that man's importance."
"By God, Emery, you do paint a picture. I got as far as four stripes and never thought of it that
way before. So he's got to get the permission of the President of the United States."
"Got to, must, sine qua non and absolutely."
"And if the President refuses?"
"I think," said Emery, stabbing his thumb into the bowl of his disreputable pipe, "that every man
has within him valuations which override what he knows to be the truth, or what he knows is right.
Most of us unfortunately have many such valuations. Harriman Nelson, a professional seeker after
truth, a career-man, you might say, in that holy search every bit as much as a career man in the Navy,
has very few such valuations. In the support of what he knows to be right, he will kick over anybody
or anything and you saw that happen at the UN. But the one thing maybe his only thing
weightier than the truth to him is his loyalty to his superior. I pray God the President does say yes,
because if he doesn't, he will obey and that obedience will destroy him." Emery laughed suddenly; it
was shocking. "Of course," he added, nursing the three-inch flame of his jet lighter into action, "That
obedience would destroy all of the rest of us, including the President of the United States, and after
that, I guess it wouldn't matter."
Crane looked at his hands and, as if they did not please him, shoved them hastily into his jacket
pockets. "And what about if he can't contact the President to ask him?"
"Now that," said Emery jovially and then paused to puff and puff, and stare at, and puff again
his pipe alight, " that presents a clear alternative and what the Navy loves to call an implement
situation. If an officer reports for orders and is unable to get them and mind you, he has to exhaust
his every resource in trying to get those orders then, and only then, is he on his own discretion. I
mean, to put it in the simplest possible terms, he is not on his own discretion if he wants to do
something and is ordered not to. Even if it's the right thing to do and he can prove it. On the other
hand, inability to make contact is never an excuse for inaction never. Enough men have been court-
martialed on this point to make it painfully clear. No, he must take action on his own discretion. That
is written in the Code, in so many words. What is not written, but is there all the same, is that he'd
better be right in what his discretion leads him to. If it all turns out well, fine. If it doesn't, God help
him because nobody else will, most especially the Navy. So what we have to pray for, Cap'n, is that
he doesn't make contact."
"You sound as if one, there were some hope of making contact and two, it would be nice if we
personally could do something about it."
Emery slowly took down his feet and even more slowly straightened his spine. Shaggy old
Emery was grave and serious so seldom that when it happened, it hit like a depth bomb. "Crane," he
murmured, and he sounded like far-off thunder, "I'd like to be able to wash out your mouth with sand-
and-canvas for that. On the first point, yes, he does have a plan. On the second point, Harriman
Nelson plays by the rules, and as long as I'm around to watch, everybody in his command does
likewise." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl ocenkijessi.opx.pl
The sea was sluggish, shiny-surfaced but heaving. The sky was cloudless but hazy, and the firebelt
hung across the high southern sky like the bridge to hell.
Captain Lee Crane stopped outside the Admiral's suite and tapped on the door. "Come in!" said a
voice, and he entered.
"You wanted me, Ad oh! Hi."
Commander Emery took one of his feet off the Admiral's desk, swung around in the Admiral's
swivel chair, and put both his feet up on the opposite corner. The Captain grinned at him. Emery was,
in Crane's mind's eye, the original Shaggy Man. There was an indefinable quality about the man that
always called the word up. It had nothing to do with his appearance, really. Starched, smoothed,
pressed (none of which he was at the moment) he would still seem shaggy. Perhaps it was the big-dog
friendliness of the man, perhaps his utterly confident lack of respect for formality. He was a man who
did not need straight ruled lines and sharp creases to comfort himself in an uncertain world. "Hi, Lee.
The O.O.M.'s brushing his teeth or something. Sit you down some."
Crane sat on the edge of the settle. "What's the occasion?"
"Ways and means. You know Harriman Nelson. He likes to have things all nice and tidy. He
never did get permission from anybody to make this trip and shoot this bird."
"Looks like permission is first-place, hard to come by and second-place, sort of an empty
gesture."
"Not to the O.O.M. He didn't mind spitting in the eye of those UN characters nor the New York
police. Damn them," he intoned passionately, then dropped the passion and went on in his easy-going
rumble. "Question of jurisdiction. This isn't Navy, this pigboat, or even Government, if it comes down
to that; the Bureau of Marine Exploration, you might say, directs it, but when you come right down to
it it was created as a land tool of Harriman Nelson. This tail wags that dog."
"So really, what's the problem? In fact and actuality, Nelson's the big wheel. He bought it, built
it, paid for it and he bosses it. Why doesn't he just look in the mirror and say 'Hm?' and then nod his
head and say, 'Uh-huh.' "
Emery laughed. "He would, Lee, he would, if it were any kind of an operation but this. Also if he
were any other kind of a man than what he is. But he's Navy retired Navy, sure: an out-and-out
civilian, when you come right down to it, but Navy for all that; it's the way he thinks, the way he
feels, the way he is. And if you could define the indefinable 'real Navy', or at least find the lowest
common denominator for the whole sea-going soldier-boy business, you'd find that from the three-day
Annapolis boot with hay in his hair, clear on up the layers of legend where live ninety-year-old retired
five-star admirals, you'd find that they had one thing in common they worked for somebody. Now
that's so self-evident up through the ranks that it seems silly to mention it, and so overlooked at the
very top that most people wouldn't even realize what you were talking about." Emery acrobatically
fumbled a hopelessly beat-up pipe out of his right pants pocket, and a tattered oilskin pouch out of his
left rear pocket, and a jet lighter out of his left pants pocket, and a knife out of his watch pocket, all
without disturbing the feet, ankle upon ankle, which one heel-point supported on the extreme corner
of the Admiral's desk. "And yet the fact that a high admiral is a subordinate is a thing that means a
great deal more, perhaps, than anything else to such a man. Two reasons: one, conditioning. An
admiral is by definition a long-term bedfellow of the naval attitude, and I say bedfellow advisedly; he
lives with it, sleeps with it. Two: As he climbs the long hill, there are a lot of guys up there ahead of
a
a
T
T
n
n
s
s
F
F
f
f
o
o
D
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P
m
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Y
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e
e
Y
Y
r
r
B
B
2
2
.
.
B
B
A
A
Click here to buy
Click here to buy
w
w
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him from the bottom it looks like that mob we saw on the plaza in front of St. Peter's. But the
higher they go, the fewer there are, and when he's spent most of a lifetime getting absolutely as high
as he can go, nobody can be surprised that in seeing only one man between himself and the sky that
he preoccupies himself pretty completely with that man's importance."
"By God, Emery, you do paint a picture. I got as far as four stripes and never thought of it that
way before. So he's got to get the permission of the President of the United States."
"Got to, must, sine qua non and absolutely."
"And if the President refuses?"
"I think," said Emery, stabbing his thumb into the bowl of his disreputable pipe, "that every man
has within him valuations which override what he knows to be the truth, or what he knows is right.
Most of us unfortunately have many such valuations. Harriman Nelson, a professional seeker after
truth, a career-man, you might say, in that holy search every bit as much as a career man in the Navy,
has very few such valuations. In the support of what he knows to be right, he will kick over anybody
or anything and you saw that happen at the UN. But the one thing maybe his only thing
weightier than the truth to him is his loyalty to his superior. I pray God the President does say yes,
because if he doesn't, he will obey and that obedience will destroy him." Emery laughed suddenly; it
was shocking. "Of course," he added, nursing the three-inch flame of his jet lighter into action, "That
obedience would destroy all of the rest of us, including the President of the United States, and after
that, I guess it wouldn't matter."
Crane looked at his hands and, as if they did not please him, shoved them hastily into his jacket
pockets. "And what about if he can't contact the President to ask him?"
"Now that," said Emery jovially and then paused to puff and puff, and stare at, and puff again
his pipe alight, " that presents a clear alternative and what the Navy loves to call an implement
situation. If an officer reports for orders and is unable to get them and mind you, he has to exhaust
his every resource in trying to get those orders then, and only then, is he on his own discretion. I
mean, to put it in the simplest possible terms, he is not on his own discretion if he wants to do
something and is ordered not to. Even if it's the right thing to do and he can prove it. On the other
hand, inability to make contact is never an excuse for inaction never. Enough men have been court-
martialed on this point to make it painfully clear. No, he must take action on his own discretion. That
is written in the Code, in so many words. What is not written, but is there all the same, is that he'd
better be right in what his discretion leads him to. If it all turns out well, fine. If it doesn't, God help
him because nobody else will, most especially the Navy. So what we have to pray for, Cap'n, is that
he doesn't make contact."
"You sound as if one, there were some hope of making contact and two, it would be nice if we
personally could do something about it."
Emery slowly took down his feet and even more slowly straightened his spine. Shaggy old
Emery was grave and serious so seldom that when it happened, it hit like a depth bomb. "Crane," he
murmured, and he sounded like far-off thunder, "I'd like to be able to wash out your mouth with sand-
and-canvas for that. On the first point, yes, he does have a plan. On the second point, Harriman
Nelson plays by the rules, and as long as I'm around to watch, everybody in his command does
likewise." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]