Greenberg, Martin H & Tier, Mark Give Me Liberty

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The marriage of our men to your women will blend our bloods until with your vastly greater numbers
in a dozen generations there will be only traces of our race left.
"And what can we do about it?" Trobt continued. "We can't kill our beloved wives and our children.
We can't stop further acquisition of Human women without disrupting our society. Each generation the
tie between us will become closer, our blood thinner, yours more dominant, as the intermingling
continues. We cannot even declare war against the people who are doing this to us. How do you fight an
enemy that has surrendered unconditionally?"
"You do understand that for your side this was the only solution to the imminent chaos that faced you?"
I asked.
"Yes." I watched Trobt's swift mind go through its reasoning. I was certain he saw that Velda was losing
only an arbitrary distinction of race, very much like the absorbing of the early clans of Velda into the
family of the Danlee. Their dislike of that was very definitely only an emotional consideration. The
blending of our bloods would benefit both; the resultant new race would be better and stronger because
of that blending.
With a small smile Trobt raised his glass. "We will drink to the union of two great races," he said. "And
to you the winner of the Second Game!"
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Give Me Liberty
COMMITTEE OF THE WHOLE
Frank Herbert
1
With an increasing sense of unease, Alan Wallace studied his client as they neared the public hearing
room on the second floor of the Old Senate Office Building. The guy was too relaxed.
"Bill, I'm worried about this," Wallace said. "You could damn well lose your grazing rights here in this
room today."
They were almost into the gantlet of guards, reporters and TV cameramen before Wallace got his answer.
"Who the hell cares?" Custer asked.
Wallace, who prided himself on being the Washington-type lawyer above contamination by
complaints and briefs, immune to all shock found himself tongue-tied with surprise.
They were into the ruck then and Wallace had to pull on his bold face, smiling at the press, trying to
soften the sharpness of that necessary phrase:
"No comment. Sorry."
"See us after the hearing if you have any questions, gentlemen," Custer said.
The man's voice was level and confident.
He has himself over-controlled, Wallace thought. Maybe he was just joking. . . . a graveyard joke.
The marble-walled hearing room blazed with lights. Camera platforms had been raised above the seats at
the rear. Some of the smaller UHF stations had their cameramen standing on the window ledges.
The subdued hubbub of the place eased slightly, Wallace noted, then picked up tempo as William R.
Custer "The Baron of Oregon" they called him entered with his attorney, passed the press tables and
crossed to the seats reserved for them in the witness section.
Ahead and to their right, that one empty chair at the long table stood waiting with its aura of complete
exposure.
"Who the hell cares?"
That wasn't a Custer-type joke, Wallace reminded himself. For all his cattle-baron pose, Custer held a
doctorate in agriculture and degrees in philosophy, math, and electronics. His western neighbors called
him "The Brain."
It was no accident that the cattlemen had chosen him to represent them here.
Wallace glanced covertly at the man, studying him. The cowboy boots and string tie added to a neat dark
business suit would have been affectation on most men. They merely accented Custer's good looks the
sunburned, windblown outdoorsman. He was a little darker of hair and skin than his father had been, still
light enough to be called blond, but not as ruddy and without the late father's drink-tumescent veins.
But then young Custer wasn't quite thirty.
Custer turned, met the attorney's eyes. He smiled.
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Give Me Liberty
"Those were good patent attorneys you recommended, Al," Custer said. He lifted his briefcase to his lap,
patted it. "No mincing around or mealy-mouthed excuses. Already got this thing on the way." Again he
tapped the briefcase.
He brought that damn light gadget here with him? Wallace wondered. Why? He glanced at the briefcase.
Didn't know it was that small . . . but maybe he's just talking about the plans for it. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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