"Sorry," Smith said, raising his glass. "Here's to empire."
Larkin was striding up and down the line of straining Martians. The scowl had become a part of him.
It's getting him, Smith marveled. Act or no act, he likes it. Experiment or not, he's in his element.
The six men sat drinking their beer and watching Larkin. But only Cleve was aware of the skill with which the man worked. The gradual application of pressure; the careful moving forward from bog to bog with the path of retreat always open. From sharpness to brusqueness. From the brusque to the harsh. From the harsh to the brutal.
"Will you tell me," Smith asked, "why we have to sit here drinking like a pack of fools? I don't like beer."
"I'm not enjoying it, either," Cleve said. "But you can certainly understand that the roles must be set right from the beginning. They must understand we are their masters, so we must conduct ourselves in that manner. Never any sign that could be interpreted as compromise."
Larkin, satisfied with the progress of the entirely useless ditch, came to the table and raised a glass of beer. He wiped the foam from his mustache and asked, "What do you think?" directing the question toward Cleve.
The latter regarded the sweating Martians with calculating eyes. "It's going entirely as I predicted. The next step is in order, I believe."
"You think it's safe?"