Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Glory Road by Robert A. Heinlein
Glory Road @ Amazon.com I was twenty-one but couldn’t figure out which party to vote against.
I object to conscription the way a lobster objects to boiling water.
One of my neighbors had a terrible asthma that lasted till his twenty-sixth birthday. No fake--he was allergic to draft boards.
I wanted the world to be what they had promised me it was going to be--instead of the tawdry, lousy, fouled-up mess it is.
“Ever play water polo, Rufo?”
“I invented it.”
A hundred feet below the reception committee had gathered.
It looked like an asparagus patch. Of bayonets.
“Darling, there is black-widow blood in every woman.”
“Rufo, were you really at Omaha Beach?”
“Hell, yes, Boss. I did all of Eisenhower’s thinking.”
For the one thing that stood out as this empirical way of running an empire grew up was that the answer to most problems was: Don’t do anything.
“It is the incidence of heroes that counts, not the pattern of zeros.”
“You know I would never draw against you.”
“I know no such thing,” he said querulously. “There’s always that first time. Scoundrels are predictable, but you’re a man of honor and that frightens me.”