Read Online Power Lines by Anne McCaffrey, Elizabeth Ann Scarborough - Free Book Online
Authors: Anne McCaffrey, Elizabeth Ann Scarborough
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touch—”
“Thank God,” Matthew said explosively.
“—that would permit us to evaluate the struggle against climate and conditions. I do find it appealing that amid all the snow and mud, they’re already starting gardens!”
Matthew snorted. “Gardens? More than square-meter plots are required to adequately feed even this indolent population. They can’t expect Intergal to continue to support them with expensive importations of subsistence rations.”
Marmion raised one hand in a gesture of indolent appeal. “I don’t believe rations are imported to Petaybee, Matthew. Do check, one of you,” she said, flicking her fingers at his assistants, “because I have the oddest recollection that they are actually self-sufficient.”
“Not with the quantities of fuel and—”
“Fuel is for vehicles, not humans, Matthew. Haven’t you got those figures for me yet?” Her attitude remained indifferent, but the slight edge to her tone made the skinny one of Matthew’s sycophants tap with greater rapidity at his notepad.
“No, sir, ma’am, no rations are imported for the indigenous population.” Then he gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbling up and down.
Marmion had to look away. The poor dear: Matthew would probably taunt him about that when he was in one of his moods. And the other young men—Matthew only had young men as assistants, which rather gave away something, at least to Marmion, that Matthew would probably rather not have known—were all reasonably attractive and looked fit and able for anything physically taxing. Trust Matthew to make the most of comparisons.
“Thank you, dear,” Marmion said to the skinny lad. “And do tell me your name again . . . my memory, you know.”
In point of fact, Matthew had not bothered to introduce any of the assistants, although she had pointedly introduced Sally Point-Jefferson, her personal secretary; Millard Ephiasos, her research assistant; and Faber Nike, whose position on her staff she had not designated. Too many people presumed that Faber’s large muscular frame and quiet deference marked a deficient intelligence and lack of personality. Too many people were wrong. Especially those who thought Faber was a bedmate. Marmion made a habit of hiring versatile, multitalented people. It saved money and engendered loyalty and discretion.
“My name is Braddock Makem, madam,” was the reply, couched in the lowest possible audible tone.
“Thank you, Mr. Makem.” She smiled. It never hurt, and for all she knew it might gain her a discreet ally on Matthew’s staff.
“Stop trying to charm my staff,” Matthew said testily, giving Makem a piercing glare. Makem’s apple did an unhappy series of perpendicular maneuvers.
“I’ve given up on that score long ago, Matthew,” she lied shamelessly. “You really do know how to incur loyalty among your staff. I could use a little of that genius.” Then, because she was near to laughter at the expression on all those startled earnest faces, she abruptly focused her eyes on the passing landscape. “Ah, the river that suddenly deiced itself. My, it is turbulent,” she said. “And overrunning its banks, too. Flood control apparently is another local lack. But, oh, glance over toward the clear fields, Matthew. Someone’s out there doing something to the ground. Plowing? Is that what you call it? And what on earth would you call the beasts they have harnessed to that queer device?” She had everyone on her side of the shuttle to see this archaic activity. “Well, isn’t that nice, Matthew. They heard you.”
Matthew favored her with a sour glare. She could almost see the phrase “they’ll hear me loud and clear” coming out in a bubble from his tightly shut lips. Certainly that was the expression evident in his glare.
A little noise, like a suppressed cough, issued from the seats behind her. Faber, more than likely, she thought. He’d never said as much, of course, but she knew he despised Matthew Luzon.
“Thank God,” Matthew said explosively.
“—that would permit us to evaluate the struggle against climate and conditions. I do find it appealing that amid all the snow and mud, they’re already starting gardens!”
Matthew snorted. “Gardens? More than square-meter plots are required to adequately feed even this indolent population. They can’t expect Intergal to continue to support them with expensive importations of subsistence rations.”
Marmion raised one hand in a gesture of indolent appeal. “I don’t believe rations are imported to Petaybee, Matthew. Do check, one of you,” she said, flicking her fingers at his assistants, “because I have the oddest recollection that they are actually self-sufficient.”
“Not with the quantities of fuel and—”
“Fuel is for vehicles, not humans, Matthew. Haven’t you got those figures for me yet?” Her attitude remained indifferent, but the slight edge to her tone made the skinny one of Matthew’s sycophants tap with greater rapidity at his notepad.
“No, sir, ma’am, no rations are imported for the indigenous population.” Then he gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbling up and down.
Marmion had to look away. The poor dear: Matthew would probably taunt him about that when he was in one of his moods. And the other young men—Matthew only had young men as assistants, which rather gave away something, at least to Marmion, that Matthew would probably rather not have known—were all reasonably attractive and looked fit and able for anything physically taxing. Trust Matthew to make the most of comparisons.
“Thank you, dear,” Marmion said to the skinny lad. “And do tell me your name again . . . my memory, you know.”
In point of fact, Matthew had not bothered to introduce any of the assistants, although she had pointedly introduced Sally Point-Jefferson, her personal secretary; Millard Ephiasos, her research assistant; and Faber Nike, whose position on her staff she had not designated. Too many people presumed that Faber’s large muscular frame and quiet deference marked a deficient intelligence and lack of personality. Too many people were wrong. Especially those who thought Faber was a bedmate. Marmion made a habit of hiring versatile, multitalented people. It saved money and engendered loyalty and discretion.
“My name is Braddock Makem, madam,” was the reply, couched in the lowest possible audible tone.
“Thank you, Mr. Makem.” She smiled. It never hurt, and for all she knew it might gain her a discreet ally on Matthew’s staff.
“Stop trying to charm my staff,” Matthew said testily, giving Makem a piercing glare. Makem’s apple did an unhappy series of perpendicular maneuvers.
“I’ve given up on that score long ago, Matthew,” she lied shamelessly. “You really do know how to incur loyalty among your staff. I could use a little of that genius.” Then, because she was near to laughter at the expression on all those startled earnest faces, she abruptly focused her eyes on the passing landscape. “Ah, the river that suddenly deiced itself. My, it is turbulent,” she said. “And overrunning its banks, too. Flood control apparently is another local lack. But, oh, glance over toward the clear fields, Matthew. Someone’s out there doing something to the ground. Plowing? Is that what you call it? And what on earth would you call the beasts they have harnessed to that queer device?” She had everyone on her side of the shuttle to see this archaic activity. “Well, isn’t that nice, Matthew. They heard you.”
Matthew favored her with a sour glare. She could almost see the phrase “they’ll hear me loud and clear” coming out in a bubble from his tightly shut lips. Certainly that was the expression evident in his glare.
A little noise, like a suppressed cough, issued from the seats behind her. Faber, more than likely, she thought. He’d never said as much, of course, but she knew he despised Matthew Luzon.
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