The Last Theorem - Arthur Charles Clarke [85]
Ranjit coughed. “As I understand it,” he said, swallowing a little more of his Jack Daniel’s, “the trouble with fighting North Korea is that they have a very large and very modern army and they’ve got it sitting right on the border, less than fifty kilometers from Seoul.”
Bledsoe waved a dismissive hand. “Hell, sure there’d be losses. A lot of them, no doubt. So what? They’d be South Korean losses, not Americans. Well,” he corrected himself, grimacing at the annoyance, “all right, there are quite a few American troops right up there, sure. But you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, can you?”
It seemed to Ranjit that the party was getting unpleasant, and then as Bledsoe tossed a crumpled napkin into a wastebasket, he thought he saw a reason. The napkin bounced off an empty whiskey bottle. Apparently his was not the first conference Bledsoe had convened that day.
Ranjit cleared his throat. “Well, Mr. Bledsoe, I come from a small country with problems of its own. I don’t want to criticize American policy.”
Bledsoe bobbed his head in agreement. “And that’s another thing,” he said, and interrupted himself to offer a refill with the bottle. Ranjit shook his head. Bledsoe shrugged and recharged his own glass. “Your little island,” he said. “Shree—Shree—”
“Sri Lanka,” Ranjit politely corrected.
“That’s the one. D’you know what you’ve got there?”
Ranjit considered. “Well, I think it’s probably the most beautiful island in the—”
“I’m not talking about the whole damn island, for Christ’s sake! My God, there’s a million beautiful islands around all over the world and I wouldn’t give you a nickel for any of them. I’m just talking about one little harbor you’ve got there, Trinkum—Trinco—”
Ranjit took pity. “I think you mean Trincomalee. I was born there.”
“Really?” Bledsoe considered that datum, found no use for it, and continued. “Anyway, I don’t give a damn about the town. It’s the harbor that’s a world-beater! Do you know what that could be? It could be the world’s best base for a nuclear submarine navy, Mr. Sub—Subra—”
He had refilled his glass once again, and the sippin’ whiskey was beginning to show its effects. Ranjit sighed and rescued him again. “It’s Subramanian, Mr. Bledsoe, and, yes, we know what a base it could be. In World War II it was headquarters for the Allied fleet, and before that Lord Nelson himself said it was one of the world’s greatest harbors.”
“Oh, crap, what does Lord Nelson have to do with it? He was talking about a place for sailing ships, for God’s sake. I’m talking nukes! That harbor’s deep enough that submarines can dive well below what any enemy could find, much less attack! Dozens of them! Maybe hundreds. And what did we do about it? We let goddamn India snap up treaty rights for the whole damn port. India, for God’s sake! And what the hell India needs a navy for in the first place, I can’t—”
Ranjit was getting tired of this opinionated drunk. Gamini was Gamini, but Ranjit couldn’t be expected to put up with much more of this. He stood up. “Thanks for the drink, Mr. Bledsoe, but I’m afraid I have to be getting along.”
He held out a hand to be shaken in farewell, but Bledsoe didn’t reciprocate. He glared up at Ranjit, then deliberately put the top back on the whiskey bottle. “Excuse me one second,” he said. “We have some unfinished business.”
He disappeared into one of the suite’s bathrooms. Ranjit heard running water, thought it over, shrugged, and sat down. It was more than one second, though. It was close to five minutes before T. Orion Bledsoe appeared again, and he hardly seemed the same man. His face was scrubbed, his hair was brushed, and he was carrying a partial cup of steaming black coffee—no doubt from the coffee machine that seemed to be standard equipment in any American hotel bathroom.
He didn’t offer Ranjit any