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CHAPTER THE 13TH
Across the Far Rift: "Tyger! Tyger!"

 
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
 
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze thy fire?
 

"Tyger! Tyger!"
William Blake.

 

The Fangs were particularly happy to pick up many tins of small fish packed in oil, which were a special delicacy on Show Low.

"Damn," said Broadax in wonder as she opened a can. "Them li'l fishies is crammed in as tight as... Well, damnme if they ain't packed tight as earthlings on public transportation. I hated ridin' in them ye know. They always smelled reel bad ta me."

"Aye," replied Hans, reflecting on the fact that

elevators and packed subways tended to smell different to a Dwarrordelf. "They's lots of 'em in there. An' any one of 'em beats the hell outa the culinary indignities of that damned cook o' yers."

"Hey now!" said Broadax. "I likes 'is chow. I swear to ye, the angels dance on my tongue when I eats his cookin'! So jist remember, anyone lays one hand on that boy an' ye gots me ta answer to!"

"Well, there is one good thing ya can say fer him!" said Hans with a grin.

"Wat?" she asked suspiciously.

"After eatin' Jones' food, our recent adventures on Show Low seem a lot less threatenin'!"

In the midst of this happy chatter an exhausted Fielder leaned back in his chair and fell into a deep slumber, sleeping the sleep of a man with nothing on his conscience. Or a man with no conscience at all.

 

Thus began their slow, placid journey through the distant deeps of two-space. They were bound for the Hero Cluster, one of the westernmost outposts of Westerness. The Far Rift was a vast ocean between the spiral arms of the galaxy, and the Hero Cluster was a lonely group of islands in the middle of that ocean.

The routine of the Ship, the drills, the meals, and the daily tasks necessary to keep her functioning perfectly as a man-of-war were soothing and familiar to the crew. They had all been given the chance to relax and blow off some steam on Show Low, and the stories thereof were told and retold, gaining polish and glory—and frequently losing any relationship to reality!

Once the Ship and crew had finished shaking down to their normal routine, Melville and Fielder started implementing a training schedule. This included daily drills, training for the crew in their areas of responsibility, cross-training in different work areas so that the Ship could continue to operate if people were injured or killed, damage control training, casualty control training, and practice and competitions to hone the skills of the crew.

An outside observer might think that there was very little work aboard a two-space vessel. The sails rarely needed to be adjusted to catch the constant winds of two-space, and the weather never changed, so just what was there for these lazy sailors and marines to do? As one ranger put it, "Ah, the life of a sailor. They eat 'til they're tired. Then they sleep 'til they're hungry."

What civilians didn't realize is that dealing with the effects of two-space required daily effort. Each of the simple tools and machines they carried with them had to be examined, measured, and if necessary, repaired daily.

And while the sails and sheets did not need adjusting to catch the wind, they were also vulnerable to the deteriorating effects of two-space. This was minimized by using natural materials that had once been alive (and were therefore less subject to decay), but even they were affected over time. Thus the boatswain's mates and carpenters were kept busy checking and repairing the Ship's hull and rigging as well.

Two-space firearms were largely immune to deterioration by the presence of their Keel charges, but the cannon carriages and ammunition had to be checked and rotated to minimize the effects.

And then there were the people.

While the Moss provided the air, light, and heat needed to support life, there is more to life than that!

So Roxy and Kaleb were kept busy preparing healthy, toothsome, and nutritious meals. (Although there was considerable debate as to whether Kaleb Jones' meals should ever be called tasty, even with the vociferous praise of Lt. Broadax and the Guldur!). Since the entertainment and morale value of food was important to the crew, both groups of sailors tended to combine and good-naturedly chastise each other about the glop the others were eating. However, since Jones and Broadax had nothing anyone could identify as a sense of humor about their food, the conversations tended to be fairly subdued. The threat of Jones' ever-present pistol and Broadax's uncertain temperament kept the joking at a quiet, cautious level.

To provide entertainment, Melville and Fielder initiated a schedule of competitions. There were the usual hornpipe, singing, and poetry contests. There was even a shadow puppet competition conducted in a cabin with all the luminous walls covered with sailcloth, and a light coming in from a hole in the bulkhead from an adjacent cabin. This was won, hands-down, by a shadow rendition of Macaulay's "Horatius at the Bridge" presented by Marine Bentley, ably assisted by his monkey using all eight limbs to represent both the bridge and the oncoming enemy host.

But most of the competitions involved skills that had application to the Ship's performance in combat. Such as: fastest watch team to remove and replace a sail, quickest boat crew to launch a jollyboat or cutter, time to shift cargo from one part of the hull to another to balance out the trim, fastest cannon crew, and lots of drills and contests focused on proving who could win the bragging rights as the "best in the crew" at individual skills such as swordsmanship, pistolcraft, and rifle marksmanship.

 

"I think that completes the training schedule, Daniel," Melville said with a sigh as he pushed away the stack of paper.

"Pretty much, sir." Fielder took a sip of the captain's wine and stared at the goblet in thought. It was an excellent vintage, just purchased on Show Low and stored up for the journey. "But I think we need to take another look at the pistol match. Right now, it's planned as another bulls-eye competition, which isn't bad." He took another drink and swirled the liquid around, watching the glints of light reflect from it.

"But?" Melville prompted.

"Dammit," the first officer answered with a scowl, "I screwed up on Show Low. If it hadn't been for Ulrich showing up when he did it might have been a permanent mistake. I know I'm good with a pistol. Hell, there are only one or two people on the Fang who are as good as me, and on my best day I can beat anyone aboard." He grinned at his captain, silently daring him to contradict him.

Melville laughed, not bothering to disagree. No matter what his other faults, Fielder was naturally talented with a pistol. And he worked hard to enhance that natural gift. Of course, Melville was confident that on a good day he could take his first officer. But he didn't really mind when Fielder had an occasional win. There was no shame in losing to a man who trained so hard, not when you knew that his skill might be keeping you alive someday! Having men who trained with you, encouraged you, teased you when you made a boneheaded mistake and cheered you when you did well: that was vital to making and keeping his Fangs such deadly competent warriors.

"But I made a near fatal error," Fielder continued. "I had three targets, four if you count Ursula, even if she did make herself scarce when the fight started. Maybe more if Elphinstone had missed. But I just automatically used the Mozambique drill, two to the heart and one to the head, when I should have moved laterally while putting one quick bullet in each of those bastards and then gone back to double-tap them."

"Okay, Daniel. So what do you want to do differently? More lectures and training on tactics in a gunfight?"

Fielder considered for a moment, then drained his glass and poured both of them a bit more of the wine.

"An excellent vintage, sir," commented Fielder in sincere appreciation as he took another sip.

"Thank you, Daniel." Melville dutifully took a sip, but he was oblivious to the taste. This was yet another of his social failings, along with his inability to dance. He could hardly tell one wine from another if it weren't for the different colors. McAndrews had selected and purchased all the wine for his captain, but Melville would be damned if he'd let anyone know that.

"Lectures and tactics training would definitely be useful, sir," continued the first officer. "But I think we need to move to a more practical shooting competition. It was actually suggested by Ulrich, and I think the little psycho may actually have a good idea here. In two-space we're limited to our double-barreled pistols, but the same principles apply. Rapid reloads and engaging multiple targets are key to survival. So, in addition to lectures and practice, I suggest we shoot timed competitions: two guns per man, four rounds from each gun, eight rounds all together. That way we get them practicing rapid reloads for the match."

"Okay, Daniel, but a lot of our people will be terribly slow at reloading, and maybe a bit unsafe. How do we get it all done in one Sunday afternoon?"

"Well, in the early elimination rounds we'll do it without reloads, so we quickly identify the ones who need the most training. Then we'll keep reducing the time until we have it down to eight people who are the fastest. At the end we'll shoot off man-to-man, with reloads required, in a single elimination, until we figure out who's the fastest at shooting and reloading."

Melville pondered this as they both sipped their wine.

"I like it, Daniel. It will be new and entertaining, it sorts out the ones who need more training, it identifies some cadre to teach them, and eventually we can do it with everyone being required to reload. Best of all, it gives me bragging rights when I beat you."

"Sure," Fielder replied with a confident smile. "And then Ulrich will win an elocution contest and Broadax will take first prize in a beauty contest."

 

It was Sunday. First they had the time-honored ritual of captain's rounds. Then Brother Theo held a religious service from the upper quarterdeck. After the service would come the pistol match (which everyone was anticipating eagerly) so Theo kept it short.

"During the early days of World War II, on Old Earth, the British Army was trapped on the coast of France in a place called Dunkirk. The situation was grim. They were outnumbered, overwhelmed, and defeated, trapped on a narrow strip of beach with their backs to the sea. Across the English Channel the British were desperately scrambling to prepare an evacuation fleet consisting of every scow and fishing boat available. 'Hold out!' England told her troops. 'We will rescue you!' The commander of the besieged British forces sent back a three-word answer: 'But if not...'"

The assembled Fangs all nodded attentively. This was the kind of sermon they could sink their teeth into.

"'But. If. Not!'" continued the monk dramatically. "These were the words of the three Hebrew children about to be thrown into the fiery furnace in the Book of Daniel. 'Our God shall preserve us,' they said, 'but if not,' He is still God. Shipmates, that British officer had faith, and he was communicating to a culture steeped in faith, who understood the deep meaning of a simple three-word message.

"Shipmates, some of you think that we are forsaken by the Admiralty. Cursed and forlorn, banished to the farthest reaches of our star kingdom! Have faith. However bad it is, our God will preserve us. If we train, prepare, and persevere, He will show us a path home. But if not, He is still God and He has promised to preserve our souls!

"Permit me to conclude with my favorite Psalm. A short little piece of ancient poetry called 'The Traveler's Psalm.'"

The crew sat back to listen. Here were Words, the most ancient of words, to provide solace in times of trial.

 
"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,
From whence cometh my help?
My help cometh from the Lord!
 
"Behold! He will not suffer thy foot to slip.
He that keepeth Israel
shall neither slumber nor sleep.
 
"The Lord is thy keeper,
The Lord is thy shade upon they right hand.
He shall not suffer the sun to smite thee by day,
Nor the moon by night.
 
"The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil!
[How?!]
He shall preserve thy soul!
 
"The Lord shall preserve thy going out,
and thy coming in;
From this day forth,
and even forever more.
 

"What more could we ask?" concluded the monk. Then he nodded to the captain and stepped away from the rail.

"Amen," said Melville, delighted as always with a padre who understood the virtue of a short sermon. "First officer, set up for the match!"

 

"Brother," asked Midshipman Hayl quietly as they departed, "did they rescue those guys on the beach?"

"Aye, verily," Theo replied distractedly as he prepared for the match. Then he looked over at the young middie, who was unconsciously rubbing the stump at the end of his arm, and the monk smiled. "It has always been referred to as the Miracle of Dunkirk. Every fishing boat and rinky-dink civilian pleasure craft that could float came across the English Channel that night in perfect weather, the clouds kept the German aircraft away, and the evacuation went flawlessly. But even if He didn't rescue their bodies, the greatest miracle is to preserve our sad, sorry souls. The Almighty does work miracles, little Cockroach, he just does it in His own peculiar way, in His own sweet time. Now, let's get on with the match, eh?" he concluded with a wink and a grin. "I have to teach some of these heathen a lesson in marksmanship!"

Everyone aboard was excited by the idea of a practical pistol match. The practice targets were shot to bits and had to be replaced on almost every watch. The only people who were not required to shoot in the match were the rangers (Josiah Westminster and Aubrey Valandil) and Ulrich, who had volunteered to serve as judges.

The rangers had nothing to prove when it came to marksmanship, and everyone knew that they would be competent and impartial. And having Ulrich as one of the judges helped to ensure that no one was going to argue over trivialities—it just wasn't safe!

The first two elimination rounds were fairly straightforward. While firing one pistol and then the other was simple, doing it in the allotted time wasn't always so easy. It required either shooting one gun with the weak hand, or shifting pistols. Either method was allowed so long as safe gun handling rules were used and the target was hit.

 

The final roster of eight people shooting in the head-to-head competition had two wildcards. Grenoble, Lt. Fielder, Captain Melville, Mrs. Vodi, Brother Theo, and Lance Corporal Jarvis were odds-on favorites. No surprises there. But to everyone's amazement, Private Dwakins edged out Corporal Petrico—who had a misfire after failing to ram home one of his bullets properly. ("Somebeach! Da pockin bore was pockin distorted 'cause the mawdikkin Keel charge is pockin bad!" snarled the little armorer.) And the real surprise was Cutherbert Asquith XVI, who astonished the entire crew by firing his two pistols accurately and rapidly without even a discernible pause.

These eight shooters were the best of the best. It was a great honor to make it this far, but the real contest was yet to come.

 

While the crew was enjoying the competition, the Ship's cats were participating in a contest of a different sort, hunting an entirely different beast, in the starry forests of the night...

 

An alien empire was preparing a devastating sneak attack on the Hero Cluster. They had an extensive spy network, they knew about the Fang, and they had very wisely concluded that Melville and his Ship had to be neutralized to ensure the success of their attack.

The nature of two-space precluded most methods an enemy could use to sabotage a Ship. Explosives other than Keel charges didn't explode, flammable materials didn't flame, and the warping effects of two-space precluded any technologically sophisticated attacks. From time immemorial, the only way to destroy a two-space Ship had been with another Ship.

But Melville and his crew had demonstrated repeatedly that trying to attack the Fang with another two-space Ship (or even with four such Ships) was simply a good way to lose Ships—either to Melville and his prize crews or to the depths of intergalactic space.

So a sentient alien slime mold had been placed aboard the Fang on Show Low. It was sentient, but in all other ways it was anathema to life. Other than loyalty to its masters, its only real joy was in destroying virtually every species that it encountered. Once the mold was in contact with a life form, it tailored its own waste byproducts to produce lethal bio-toxins specifically designed to kill that specific species.

The saboteurs had planned well. The slime mold had been deposited on the surface of one of the water barrels. Once the barrel was aboard, the mold could slip out unnoticed into the Ship's environment to meet up with humans for the first time—and kill them!

 

The cats' alpha male was a nasty, gnarly, vicious, mottled-yellow creature named Cuddles. He was locked in a struggle against a large black cat named Brutus, who was actively challenging Cuddles' position. In some cultures the old male is allowed to slink back into quiet dotage and peaceful retirement, living out his last years in some protected spot. But that was not for Cuddles.

This was truly a life-and-death struggle. Cuddles would die before he would give up the privileges that came with being top cat. Privileges such as first choice at any food and the opportunity to violently possess any female that was currently in season.

Cuddles and Brutus had been among the first to notice the mold seeping from a water barrel stowed on the lower deck next to the mainmast. The cats were instinctively suspicious and hostile toward anything new in their environment, and this black mold seeping out from the water barrel was definitely something that did not belong. Cuddles and Brutus tossed the first few blobs overboard with hacking slashes of their claws. As other cats arrived to deal with the intruder, the two competing alpha males backed off to opposite neutral corners where they could keep an eye on each other as they cleaned their paws.

Fortunately for Cuddles and Brutus, the disoriented, isolated samples of the mold on their paws had not yet had the chance to analyze the nature of this new enemy. Without the full processing power of the main body, the small colonies on Cuddles' and Brutus' paws could not develop the poisons and toxins which would allow it to tailor biochemical weapons for this new feline foe, and it could not rapidly adapt to the destructive mechanisms of the two cats' digestive tracts.

The ninja slime mold was virtually immortal. It could endure impact, shock, stabbing, strangulation, freezing, fire, and dismemberment, but these isolated samples of the mold could not survive the awesome destructive ability of the powerful digestive tract of a cat. The slime mold that Cuddles and Brutus licked off their paws was doomed to the inglorious fate of being defecated into two-space, causing only minor diarrhea and indigestion in the process.

 

The final eight pistol competitors were shooting from the greenside railing in the lower waist. The targets were hung from the mainsail yardarm. A few lookouts and a skeleton crew were manning the upperside quarterdeck, with the rest of the crew observing from the lowerside rails, rigging, yards and quarterdeck. The dogs also sat watching attentively, eagerly enjoying the competition and cheering on their masters with boisterous barks.

First up in the competition were Dwakins and Mrs. Vodi. Lance Corporal Jarvis felt more than a bit conflicted here, since he was Dwakins' squad leader. Jarvis wanted the lumbering blockhead to do well, but he also wanted to win.

"Just take it easy, Dwakins, you'll do fine. Shoot just like you been practicing," Jarvis reminded him, "and don't worry about how you're doing."

"He do rreal gud," Rawl insisted.

Since Dwakins had carried the wounded Guldur into sick bay, Rawl had been his constant companion. He was one of the few Guldur who had elected to join the marines instead of the Ship's company of sailors. Rawl wasn't the sharpest tooth in the mouth, but he was steady and reliable—so long as he was with Dwakins. And when Dwakins was with Rawl, the two of them together seemed to have fewer problems dealing with life and its challenges than either of them alone. Or as Broadax had observed more than once, "Either of them two idjits alone 'ud have to double their brains ta make a good moron. I mean, them boys can hide their own Easter eggs, if ye know what I mean? But ye gets the Brothers Dumb workin' tagedder an' they makes one good marine!"

The perfect example of this was Dwakins with a pistol. Before Rawl came into his life, Dwakins was competent, but nothing more. But when the two of them spent time together building their skills, they grew faster and more fluid, as if they combined together, shoring up the other's weak spots and problem areas.

Jarvis finally realized that, as their squad leader, the best way to handle the two of them was to simply give them a job and let them figure out how to handle it. They never seemed to go at it the same way that any normal marine would, but they always got it done. Somehow.

So when the two shooters came to their mark, Mrs. Vodi appeared relaxed and confident, and Dwakins was arguing with Rawl all the way to the mark.

"Ah ain't eatin' dat glop Jones is makin' tonight! It's got dem rocks init ya call dumplin's. They's jis' liddle rocks is what they is!"

"Nawrr, you gots' terr chew 'em up good. Iss gud food—betterr than Rrroxy makes tonight. She makes salt porrrk stew. Gud, yes? Taste rike human! But bitterrrash dumprings betterrr."

"Ah still ain't eatin' it!"

"We bet then. You win rrround. We eat Rrroxy sstew. You lose, we eat Jones sstew. Much betterr forr us both. Good forr you and you little teeth. Make sharrperr!" Rawl growled back.

"Done, ya overgrown puppy. Now lemme shoot so's Ah can eat some decent stew tonight!" Dwakins shook his head and stomped over to the mark.

Jarvis looked over at Rawl, who stood there with a doggie smile on his jaws, his tongue hanging out over his lower fangs.

"What're you two yammering on about?" said Jarvis. "He's supposed ta be getting ready to shoot, not thinking about dinner!"

"If Dwakins thinks, he no sshoot good. So I distrract him," Rawl replied. "My brrother do betterrr when his brrain not involved."

Broadax looked up at Jarvis. "Dwakins has a brain?" she whispered incredulously.

Jarvis simply shook his head in resignation. "I think the Guldur has custody of it most days. And then Dwakins comes outta the blue and surprises me again."

"Them cops on Show Low found out it ain't a good ideer ta peeve our Dwakins," said Broadax. "I found out he managed ta git a half-dozen 'er so of 'em sent ta the hospital fer various contusions, abrasions, and cuts. Rawl sez he an' the monks jist covered Dwakins' back whilest he went through those flatfoots like grease through a goose! But what really musta shook up them cops wus Dwakins' battle cry. He kept shoutin', 'Wreckdum! Wreckdum!' as he clobbered 'em. I betcha that confused and scared the hell outa of 'em!" Broadax shook her head in combined amusement, admiration, and bewilderment. "Yep," she concluded, "might jist make one good marine outa them two idjits!"

Valandil tapped the bell to start the match. Mrs. Vodi and Dwakins both drew their first pistol, quickly firing both barrels, drawing the second pistol as they fired and then shifting their stance to fire that gun with the opposite hand. Both Dwakins and Vodi holstered their first pistol and grabbed two bullets as they fired the second gun. They reloaded both barrels in that gun, fired the reloaded pistol, and then reloaded and fired the pistol again.

While Mrs. Vodi was fast reloading, Dwakins was even faster and he completed firing his seventh and eighth rounds as she was just bringing the pistol to bear on the target.

Westminster peered at the targets, and all eight rounds from both contestants had entered the required areas, four in the head target area, four in the center of mass of the torso silhouette.

"Dwakins takes the round," he announced, to Vodi's obvious disgust, and Dwakins joy.

"Hoo-yah! Ah gots salt pork stew fer mah dinner tonight!" he yelled, which confused Vodi and the rest of the crew mightily.

"Awwr rright, awwr rright," Rawl growled at him. "Want to make it besst two ourrt of thrree?"

 

<<Forces of evil!>> the slime mold called out telepathically to the cats as it retreated in disgrace, oozing back into the cracks in the water barrel to escape the slashing onslaught of the cats' digging claws. And retreat it must. Already several large cell clusters had been flicked overboard into two-space where even its immortal cells could not survive.

Wherever it was in contact with the cats' paws the message was sent. <<You will carry your coffins on your backs. To die in disgraceful failure. Taking your schemes back with you. Or to dig your own graves after you bring death to yourselves beneath the searing light of our sacred stars against which you perpetrate aggression.>>

The cats were... confused. Many kinds of vermin had tried to infest their Ship, but their prey had never <<talked>> to them before...

 

"Next two contestants will be Brother Theo Petreckski and Lance Corporal Jarvis," Valandil called out.

Brother Theo took the mark and looked over at the marine. "Corporal Jarvis, I do hope you will not take it amiss when a man of the cloth has to teach one of our poor marines what it means to shoot well!" he called out cheerfully.

Jarvis laughed delightedly. "Not at all, Brother. Just remember to spend some time in prayer confessing the sin of unwonted pride!"

"Now, now, Corporal. It's only unwonted if I lose! And God favors those who practice!"

Jarvis only laughed as he let his mind focus on the targets, relaxing as he readied himself to react with the whip-crack fast reactions he was known for.

 

The slime mold tried a new tactic, seeping down the side of the barrel through the cracks to the deck, and then oozing slowly toward the nearest crevice in the decking. The mold killed the Moss wherever it came into contact with it. While Fang couldn't feel the mold directly, it could sense the areas where the Moss died. For Fang it was as though something was scraping a tiny strip of Moss off of the deck. This was the kind of thing that happened all the time when heavy objects were dragged or pushed across the deck, and Fang quickly grew back over those spots. It was nothing unusual, no cause for alarm.

For the cats, it was obvious something was happening when the Moss stopped glowing in a spot near the base of the barrel. This gave them an area to home in on, slashing, scraping, and licking at the alien creature with their claws and their abrasive, raspy tongues.

Once again the slime mold was forced to take shelter in the cracks between the water barrel's staves.

For the other cats, taking over the battle from Cuddles and Brutus, their luck had run out. By the time they came into contact with the slime mold the intruder had analyzed the body chemistry of this new foe and had developed toxins which would kill the creatures that consumed it. These cats would defecate the small colonies they ingested overboard into two-space, but not before the intruder had released enough toxins to kill them.

 

Jarvis and Brother Theo were both fast. Very fast. Firing and reloading, the two men finished in a dead heat. The final score showed Brother Theo to be more accurate, with one of Jarvis' rounds landing slightly outside the target zone. Not far (if it had been an actual foe, he would have suffered an acute and terminal case of lead poisoning) but enough for Brother Theo to move on to the next round.

"Ah, hell!" Broadax cursed. "Ye means ta tell me the honor o' the Westerness marines is restin' on the backs of the Brothers Dumb? Wot kinder nonsense is this, Corp'ral?" She jerked her thumb over at Dwakins and Rawl, who were still arguing passionately over the merits and failures of bitterash dumplings. "If'n them two doorknobs ain't talkin' 'bout food, they's talkin' 'bout women. An' neider o' the two of 'em knows enough of the female o' any species t' fill a thimble!"

Jarvis stood shaking his head. "Yep. And for this I decided to stay in the marines. If I hadn't got all noble and greedy I coulda been home now, behind my old mule, peacefully plowing my own land. And damned if that don't sound right nice compared to dealing with my two idiots."

Broadax sighed, exhaling a cloud of toxic smoke that was repeated in miniature by her monkey. "Well, ye know no good deed goes unpunished. So go sort out the Brothers Dumb an' git 'em settled down agin. It's downright embarrassin' hearin' 'em yammerin' like a couple o' puppies growlin' over a teat!"

She snarled again as she walked over to Hans, who was carefully looking the other way as he controlled a case of the giggles.

 

"I vonder vot dem cats is lookin' at?" Corporal Kobbsven observed to the sailor next to him.

The sailor turned and saw several cats sitting on their haunches and staring at the side of a water barrel on the deck.

"Dammed if'n I know. Who knows why a cat does anyting? O' course who but a marine wastes time starin' at a cat anyhow?" the sailor chortled.

Kobbsven growled slightly and forgot about the cats as he watched the captain and his first officer move to the firing line.

"Woof!" added Boye at their feet, as the dog (and his monkey) watched his person intently.

 

Melville and Fielder looked relaxed and confident as they approached the rail. They had stripped off their jackets and were in white shirts and blue trousers, with their bare feet on the Moss of the Ship.

<<P U P S H O O T N O W?>> came the message through the Moss to the captain. <<P U P W A N T H E L P?>>

The temptation was great. Fang's assistance might make a big difference in this contest. But Melville grinned cheerfully as he thought back to Fang, <<No, I don't need help with this one. We shoot as we are, so I can prove to Daniel that he needs more practice. Besides, having you help would be cheating—and we save that for our enemies, not our friends!>>

<<P U P P L A Y F I G H T!>> He caught a flash of amusement through the Moss as it sent back Fang's response.

<<G O O D F O R S P I R I T! F U N!>>

As he stepped up to the line for instructions, he whispered to Fielder, "Don't worry, Daniel, I'll be gentle. I know it's just your partying catching up with you, and not your increasing age and feebleness!"

Fielder sniffed and raised his nose a bit as he said, "Gentle, huh? Partying, age, and feebleness? Sir, don't you know that you have to relieve yourself of tensions to shoot well?"

Melville smiled and said softly, "Yes, and I'm sure running naked through the streets is a great tension reliever, now isn't it?"

"Not fair, sir, not fair! It seems I will have to teach you manners by out-shooting you today!" he chortled in response.

Westminster shook his head at the two of them. "Sirs, if you two fine gentlemen are through talking trash, Ah'd like to get this match under way."

Fielder and Melville grinned at him and each other unrepentantly.

"When you hear the bell, you will draw and fire both barrels from each gun at the two targets," the ranger drawled. "Each target must have one round in the head region and one in the torso, both in the kill zone. You will then reload and repeat the sequence, for a total of eight rounds fired, four in each target." Even though the participants had heard the directions many times before in previous matches, they listened carefully as judges had been known to vary the target zones at the last minute.

"Are the shooters ready?" Westminster asked.

Melville and Fielder nodded, looking relaxed and composed while their monkeys crouched on the rail nearby, watching.

Ding! went the bell in Valandil's hand. Melville's right hand came up holding the pistol and met his left hand in front of his chest as it rose to eye level. <<purr!purr!>> the pistol spoke in his mind and "Crack!Crack!" it said to his ears. On the second shot both hands dropped as the first pistol went into the holster, the second lifted out in his left hand and met the empty right hand, coming up to eye level as the pistol cracked twice more.

Fielder was shooting at the same time, but Melville was totally immersed in his task, feeling the grip of the pistol, watching the front sight as it came into focus and covered the target as his thumb caressed the nipples of the Keel charge.

As Melville fired the second shot from the second pistol, he brought the muzzle up, thumbed a bullet into each muzzle, rammed them home, brought it up to align with the target, and thumbed the Keel charges: <<purr!>> "Crack!" <<purr!>> "Crack!" as he aimed first at the head and then the torso. Then he brought the gun in, reloaded, and repeated the sequence again.

<<C U B S P L A Y F I G H T! G O O D P R A C T I C E!>> Melville felt from Fang.

<<Good practice!>> Melville agreed with a smile.

"Cease fire," shouted Valandil.

 

"I told you that you needed more practice Captain!" Fielder chortled. "Or maybe you need a bit more relaxation time in port."

Melville grimaced at the targets, then shook his head ruefully. "Point taken, Daniel. I think perhaps I had better think about my own practice schedule as well as the crew's."

Westminster leaned in to look at the offending target. Melville had been faster, but one of his shots was high and outside the torso ring. "Well, Captain, it might not be good enough to win here, but in the real world Ah reckon it'd hit the man's throat right in front of the spine. Woulda taken the fight outa him real quick. 'Course that's why we always teach folks to shoot at the center of mass: 'cause you've got room to miss the center and still maybe take 'em out anyway. But it ain't quite good enough today," he said, grinning cheerfully at his captain.

<<P U P N E E D M O R E P L A Y F I G H T!>> he felt from his Ship.

Melville sighed ruefully, regretting that he hadn't used Fang's assistance. <<The other guys all cheat. They practice,>> he thought back good-naturedly. <<And, yes, this pup needs to practice too. I just wish everyone would stop rubbing it in!>>

 

The slime mold was... frustrated. To say the least. In all its countless millennia of experience it had never run into targets that were so alert, and so stupidly stubborn! And the Ship! Never before had the Moss given the slightest indication that it could even sense the presence of the mold on its surface! Yet these mammals and the Moss seemed to work together to frustrate it in its sacred duty: the death of all aboard for the greater glory of Quar!

A person in this situation might be rightfully accused of sulking, but the mold was a creature of a very different type. It took out its frustrations by tweaking the waste products it was secreting into the water barrel, making the death slower, more painful, locking it in tightly to the biological information it had acquired in losing chunks of itself to the cats.

The alien mold considered itself an artist of death, and these exasperating mammals had driven it into a creative frenzy.

 

"So whatsk the status o' da bettink on da match so far, Hansk?" Ulrich asked.

Hans quirked a grizzled eyebrow at Ulrich, his monkey, and the goofy little green bird bobbing atop his head. "'Bout the same as it were an' hour ago. Most o' the bets had the captain or Fielder picked as t' winner, a good chunk had Grenoble up, an' most o' the marines were goin' fer Dwakins. But they're mostly bettin' from pride fer one o' their own more'n they think he can win it."

"Huh. How's 'bout da bettin' on Asquith?" he asked curiously.

"Him? The earthworm?" Hans asked incredulously. "I gots two idjits in the whole pool who bet on him t' win. An' he's one o' 'em!" He paused and looked thoughtfully at Ulrich then continued slowly. "O' course, if'n by some chance he did win, those two idjits would split the pool, wouldn't they?" His monkey spit over the side, which cued Hans to do the same. "Ya wouldn't happen ta know who actually put down the money on him, wouldja?" he probed.

Ulrich smiled beatifically—a truly frightening sight to Hans, since the only other times the old seadog had seen that same expression was in battle, framed by a mask of gore.

"Well, I know'd one o' them idjitsk wask Asquith," said Ulrich, "an' sincesk t' othersk me, I'm guessink we's gonna find out whosk da idjitsk here shortly!" He grinned evilly as his monkey eeked wickedly.

"Eep!" agreed his bird.

"An' whilsk you're at it, see what kinder odds ya can git on a side bet fer da earthworm againsk Grenoble." He handed Hans a bulging leather purse. "I figger Asquith'll finishk up shootink 'fore Grenoble finishkes reloadink 'is lask round. So's whyn't ya see what kinder oddsk ya kin get fer us, why don't ya?"

Hans tossed the purse in his hand thoughtfully. "Lemme git this straight," he said slowly. "Ya want me ta bet that Asquith will be done shooting—and win!—before Grenoble finishes reloading to fire his last two shots? Look, Ulrich, I can buy that Asquith has been practicin'. I can even believe that he's good enough ta win against Grenoble—even though the pockin' Sylvan knight is faster'n hell. I mean, I know ya bin workin' with the boy. But before Grenoble finishes reloadin'?!"

Hans shook his head and continued. "I can git good odds fer it, but yer gonna lose, unless somethin' happens ta distract Grenoble. An' if it does, all bets are off, Ulrich. I know how ya feels about that Sylvan, I do. You can't deny that you'd give yer right arm to stick it too 'im."

"Atsk right. Skumbudy's right arm, anyway. They's always lotsk a right arms around, no sense in wastingk mine."

"That's what I thought. But, by the Lady, nobody gits ta play fast 'n loose with the rules jist ta embarrass someone else." Hans said, giving the sawed-off psycho a glare which slid right past him.

"Nawrsk, ya gotsk me wrong, Hansie, ya does. All straightsk, not a thing I'm gonna do exceptin' watch that prancink prig git taken down a notch—or maybe ten! See how 'e feels after an earthworm beatsk 'im like a drum!" He chortled evilly.

Hans eyed him curiously. Then he crossed his arms and stared over the side for a moment. "Wellll," he said slowly, "so long as it's on the up-'n'-up, I think I can git some good odds." He smiled at the little coxswain. "After all, it ain't like it's gonna happen. So, hell, I'll even be taken some o' yer money myself!"

Ulrich grinned back. "You jesk be doink dat, an' I'll be collectink from ya after the match."

"Heeere kittykittykitty!" concluded his parrotlet.

 

Cuddles and Brutus crouched on on the deck on opposite sides of the water barrel, watching for the appearance of their nemesis.

A calico cat was stretched out on its side, shivering feverishly and whining quietly. Cuddles got up and paced over to her, sniffing her mouth and body.

Besides the smell of meat and sickness Cuddles caught a whiff of the mold on her breath. Musty, dark, and nasty, the mold had a smell reminiscent of food gone bad.

While not very intelligent compared to a man or a monkey, the cats had generations of breeding and the environment of two-space to thank for their extra capabilities compared to the cats throughout history. And one thing Cuddles had, along with the native cunning that was his birthright, was an abundance of experience with all sorts of pests.

Right now, all that experience and cunning was screaming out to him that this enemy was death to the cats! Cuddles turned back and sat on the deck again, looking at his enemies: an alien mold, and a cat that wanted to replace him as alpha male.

Cuddles' tiny cat brain wondered how he could use the situation to his advantage. After all, the mold had to go.

And so did Brutus.

 

Grenoble neatly folded the red-braided, hunter-green jacket of his crimson-and-clovers, handed it to a Ship's boy for safekeeping, and moved to the firing line clad in white shirt and red-trimmed, grass-green trousers. He looked relaxed and ready as his monkey hopped up into the rigging above his head to watch. The proud Sylvan knight and hereditary bodyguard looked over at Asquith and grinned confidently as he waited for the match to start.

Asquith pulled off his plum-colored jacket, handed it to another Ship's boy, and moved to the firing line. His monkey stayed on his shoulder, holding a belaying pin and looking around suspiciously. Its eyes found Ulrich, and it shrieked a fierce "Eek!" and waved its belaying pin at him while looking around even more suspiciously.

Westminster looked over at Ulrich, who looked back at him with an innocent shrug that fell about a mile short of true innocence.

The ranger shook his head, and walked over to Asquith.

"Mr. Asquith, normally the monkeys are spectators and not participants in these events," he drawled with a friendly smile.

"Says who?" Asquith replied back, looking like a dyspeptic bunny rabbit on a rampage. "I'm not about to get out here without him. Those damned Dwarrowdelf dumplings hurt!"

Westminster looked at the earthling in confusion. "Ah'm not sure Ah understand what you mean. What dumplings? What in the blazes are you talking about? You're just here to shoot."

Asquith nodded over at Ulrich. "His damned dumplings! The things hurt when they hit from that sling of his!"

Westminster looked over at Ulrich, who looked back with a shrug.

"Eep?" added his bird innocently.

The ranger shuddered and decided that he really didn't want to know how Ulrich taught pistolcraft. At least not right now. But he noticed that Asquith looked more peeved than nervous as he waited on the firing line. And his monkey looked downright irritated, swinging its belaying pin back and forth, looking all over but seeming to concentrate in Ulrich's direction more than anything else.

The bell in Valandil's hand rang and Asquith and Grenoble both chose to shoot with a gun in each hand rather than the more stable two-handed hold. While the two-handed grip provided greater accuracy, its downside was that it required reholstering and drawing to shoot the second pistol.

With a .45 (Saint John Browning's masterpiece of warrior engineering) a two-handed grip was the standard marksmanship method. A .45 also had a round up the spout and another seven in the magazine, and reloading was quickly accomplished with a mag change.

But with a two-shot pistol, more pistols meant more firepower. Like the ancient pictures of pirates and naval heroes festooned with bandoleers of pistols, the modern sailor found it better to have more pistols, and then shift to the sword rather than try to reload in combat.

So in two-space, the real master of the pistol was one who could maximize his firepower by shooting with either hand. These two men understood this. One by dint of long training and brutal practice in battle, and the other by means of lots of training and brutal practice with a psychopath who felt that you didn't learn anything unless it was associated with pain when you got it wrong.

Grenoble concentrated on his pistol, focusing on the front sight as it covered his target, and then gently thumbing the nipples of the Keel charges on his pistol: <<purr>> "Crack!" <<purr>> "Crack!" He got two good hits on the target, then shifted to his other hand and repeated the drill: <<purr>> "Crack!" <<purr>> "Crack!" Then he holstered one gun as he quickly started the reloading of the other pistol. After shooting both dry, it was best now to concentrate on loading and firing just one pistol for sustained fire.

As he thumbed in the two bullets and started to ram them home he heard Asquith's next two shots, something he hadn't heard before due to his intense concentration. Alas, the earthling hath need of much more practice if he hath just now fired his second pistol, Grenoble thought smugly. While he respected the work that Asquith had done to learn to shoot, he felt that the man was a dilettante rather than a dedicated warrior who had truly devoted himself to the art of war.

 

For Asquith, the match was actually a source of considerable pleasure. He liked shooting and enjoyed doing it well. The only problem with Ulrich as a teacher was that the damned psycho didn't know how to relax. Shooting was relaxing for the diminutive earthling, but Ulrich always managed to make the practice sessions stressful.

Ulrich could probably find a way to take the fun out of sex, he thought. Every time Asquith practiced, he had to focus on the targets while his monkey had to... how did these sailors say it? Oh, yes, "Watch his six." Curious term, he thought, as his sights steadied down on the head of the target and he gently thumbed the nipples of the Keel charges on his pistol <<purr>> "Crack!" <<purr>> "Crack!" and then brought it back to lay against his shoulder while his monkey reloaded it. I wonder where it came from? These Navy types have done such odd things to the English language.

The second pistol rose into view and steadied on the target as he focused on the front sight, locking in on the holes in the target that his first two rounds had made. Ulrich called this game "chasink da bullets," where he aimed at his previous bullet hole and tried to put the next bullet where the first one had gone. What else did he say? Oh, yes, aim small, miss small. <<purr>> "Crack!" <<purr>> "Crack!" and he angled this second pistol across his chest so the monkey could reload it.

Asquith felt the monkey push the first muzzle away signaling it was ready for use. He let out his breath and held it to steady his aim.

This was really pleasant! In practice, every single time he began to have fun, Ulrich started slinging those damned dumplings at him. He couldn't simply settle in and enjoy the shooting: he had to keep aware of what was happening around him because the psycho was always testing him! Painfully! All those distractions made him really appreciate his monkey. His pistol's front sight came into view and steadied on the target as he gently thumbed the Keel charges again. <<purr>> "Crack!" <<purr>> "Crack!" Then he laid it against his shoulder just as his furry friend pushed the other barrel forward to signal that it was ready.

I wonder where these little guys came from? he asked himself for the ten thousandth time. They may not talk, but they're definitely intelligent. Heh, heh, like Daniel's monkey being so offended when he left him behind at that tavern. The front sight settled on the previous bullet holes, or was that a hole? I can't tell if I missed or not, it just looks like one hole. I can't believe I missed, what an embarrassment! The pistol spoke again <<purr>> "Crack!" <<purr>> "Crack!" and he returned it to his shoulder for reloading. Oh, my god! There's not enough holes there! Where did the other round go?

He holstered the first pistol as he brought the second gun up for reloading, then holstered it when his monkey pushed it away to tell him it was ready.

I cannot believe I missed that shot!

 

Grenoble focused on finishing reloading his last pistol as his ears rang from Asquith's shots. He brought it up carefully but quickly and touched off the final two rounds, then holstered it and turned to look at his opponent who was standing with his hands on the rail, staring at the targets with a definitely peeved face. He looked like a rodent with some kind of stomach trouble. I hope he didn't just give up in the middle of the match, Grenoble thought.

 

Melville was astonished, to put it mildly. Asquith's shooting had been a surprise, but his monkey reloading for him? The captain turned his head to look at his own monkey thoughtfully, only to see the little creature staring back at him.

"Now why in all the purple Dwarrowdelf hells didn't we think of that?" he asked his monkey quietly.

The monkey shot its head up to peer at the target then stretched it back over and down to look at him upside down—or right side up depending on your viewpoint, at least its eyes were "up" this way. Then it squeaked out a baffled "Eep!" and an emphatic six armed shrug, as if to say, "Darned if I know!"

"I think we have some practicing to do, my friend," continued the captain, thoughtfully. "Lots of practice. I get the feeling that it isn't quite as easy as Asquith and his little friend made it look!"

"Eep!" added his monkey in agreement.

 

Ulrich came up to Hans gleefully. "I tole ya I'se been workink wit' 'im. Gotsk ta git 'im used ta a real furball, so's I bin usink them rocks we gets in da soup. They's great in a sling, an' they don't hurt 'im much. 'Sides, it kept 'im frum gittink too eggsited when 'e shot in compertition, nawr didn't it!"

Ulrich's monkey brandished a fist and screeched emphatically from his shoulder, "Eek! Eek!"

"Eep! Eep!" added the bird, bouncing excitedly on his other shoulder.

"Don't hurt much, you maniac!?" Asquith called back. "Damned things leave a knot the size of an apple! A big, juicy apple! Besides, I can't believe I missed that target!" he moaned.

"Whatja mean, missked? Ever' skingle shot hit it!" Ulrich yelled back.

"I mean I missed, you sawed-off psychopath!" replied the little earthling, going nose-to-nose with the equally diminutive coxswain. It looked like a deranged bunny facing down a rabid ferret. "There's not enough holes in the head! What, are you blind as well as insane?"

Everyone took a step back. Nobody talked to Ulrich like that! Melville and Fielder weren't sure whether to grab Ulrich, or Asquith, or dive to the deck. They were totally flabbergasted when Ulrich laughed and called back, "An' yer a right idjit if'n ya thinks ya missked it! Ya jisk hit da bullet hole! See? Dis hole'sk a leetle lopsided. An' smackink yew wit' dem dumplinsk wus great fun! Yew looked goofy as hell jumpink 'round tryink ta shoot when ya gotsk stung!" Ulrich hooted as his monkey and parrotlet eeped emphatically in agreement.

Asquith laughed and moved back from the firing line as the captain and his first officer looked at each other, trying to regroup and figure out what had just happened. Asquith, shooting like a machine, focused on the target, and firing rapidly and precisely? His monkey reloading? Asquith and Ulrich laughing at each other? Maybe they had better make an appointment with Lady Elphinstone to find out if they had misplaced their sanity.

Shaking his head, Melville stepped over to see what the judges had to say. Wait, Ulrich was one of the judges! And Valandil never had much to say, he only spoke up when there was a safety violation. So it all depended on what Westminster decided.

Melville wanted Westminster to back Asquith—primarily because he did not want Fielder to win! He also immediately understood that Ulrich and Asquith had introduced a tremendous combat multiplier, and all future matches would permit the use of monkeys. As captain, his decision would be law, and he could interrupt here, but he resolved to leave it to the judges. It would be so much more gratifying and satisfying if Fielder was defeated without Melville having to interfere.

 

Grenoble and Westminster were arguing about the match as Melville and his first officer got to the table. As usual, Ranger Valandil remained silent (living up to his nickname, "Quietfoot") while the Westerness ranger and the Sylvan knight tried to make sense of the situation.

"I have a thought on the matter, that I would communicate to thee," said Grenoble.

"You do, eh?" said Westminster.

"Wouldst hear it?"

"Ah'm not sure Ah want to know. But Ah think you're gonna tell me anyway."

"In truth, my friend, I was most astonished at the method in which Master Asquith hath chosen to shoot so expeditiously and capably. 'Twas obvious that they spent much time in their preparation, and 'tis to their honor 'twas most well done. But 'tis true as well, that the rules of this bout doth say that the shooter must shoot with no outside assistance, doth it not?"

"Eep?" said Grenoble's monkey, crossing its top set of arms and craning its neck to look the Sylvan in the eye balefully.

"Yeah, yeah," Westminster retorted. "And since when is a monkey considered to be 'outside help' now? Ah don't know of a single member of the crew who thinks that the monks are outside help! Ah mean, the monks have become part of us. Like mah little feller is 'Westminster's monkey'—although Ah have to admit, sometimes Ah feel like Ah'm more his human than he's mah monkey! And the matches are supposed to be a practical shooting match, to simulate fighting. And ain't no-ways, no-how Ah'm going to fight without my little guy."

Grenoble glanced over at the monkey scowling on his shoulder and said, "'Tis truth, my friend, but... 'Odsblood! 'Tis a true dilemma here. Wouldst know what 'tis the nub of the matter?"

"What?"

"Shall I tell thee?"

"I said so!"

"'Tis this. We must be true to the rules of thy bout, but how doth we do so and still appease our little friends? Truly 'tis a dilemma!"

Grenoble's monkey gave an "Eek!" and looked at him in outrage.

Everyone present watched with amusement. Not only had Grenoble been defeated by the underdog, but now his own monkey was going to make him concede!

"Ah don't think your monkey agrees with you, mah friend," said the ranger.

"Forsooth, little brother," said the Sylvan to his monkey, beseechingly. "Thy contributions are many and undeniable, and 'tis true that thy skills are perhaps underutilized as our friend Asquith and his companion hath demonstrated. But I am loath to be defeated by this earthling's tricks and my honor requires that I bring forth this point!"

His monkey performed a complicated shrug involving multiple shoulders and gave a dismissive "Eek!"

Westminster laughed at the monkey's response. "Well, Ah'm with your monkey on this one. Ah can't think of a single reason why it shouldn't be permitted! We're trying to teach our folks to shoot better and faster than the bad guys. The way Ah see it, as the senior judge Ah've got two choices. Ah can stick to the rules, ignore reality, and prevent our folks from practicing for a real gunfight. Or Ah can set up a match that encourages them to practice the way they'd be shooting in the real and nasty. And all the gods know—human, Sylvan or Dwarrowdelf—that how you practice is gonna be how you do it when it matters!"

There was a murmur of agreement from the onlookers in response to this. The ranger was tapping into fundamental principles here.

"Way back in the twentieth century," said Westminster, "when they first started figuring out warrior science, they had police officers armed with revolvers. They found out that in real gunfights the cops were acting just like they did on the range, collecting their empty brass, all neat and pretty, instead of dumping them on the ground and reloading. There were a couple of times when they found dead cops with empty brass in their hands or their pockets! The lesson learned is 'train like you fight' 'cause there ain't no Tooth Fairy, and there ain't no Easter Bunny, and there ain't no Combat Fairy who's gonna come bonk you with the Combat Wand and make you capable of doing all the things you never practiced. You do not 'rise to the occasion,' you sink to the level of your training!"

Grenoble sighed. "'Tis true, my brother. It hath been proven time and again that how thou dost do it in drills is how thou shalt do it when the fur flies! I will agree with thee that this is an allowable practice—but only if thou can'st prove that it doth not distract thy monkey from its ability to protect thee from the slings and arrows of thine enemies!"

Ulrich spoke up for the first time. "I can tell ya that the monkeysk need practicink wit' dat! Ya gotsk ta make sure they ain't too focused on one thing. I wuz worried 'bout dat muself, so's I bin usink Asquith fer an 'spermental dummy. I bin usink my sling an' those liddle dumplinks Jones makes fer ammo. Hurtsk if'n it hits, but I figgered it wouldn't kill 'im. An' I figgered even if it did kill 'im, 'e's the most hexpendable member of the crew. Heh heh. It took 'is monk a bit ta git it tagedder, but they done it."

"'Expendable,' am I!" said Asquith in outrage. "I'm the damned Ship's historian, and you're going down in the annals as a psychopathic, homicidal maniac!"

That seemed to please Ulrich enormously. He and his monkey grinned ear-to-ear and looked at each other happily.

"Heeere kittykittykitty!" added the little green bird from atop his head.

 

By the end of the day the mold had been able to preserve about half of its beginning mass and was firmly ensconced in the cracks of the water barrel. And a half-dozen cats had died. The final score at the end of the quarter was: six cats dead, and half the slime mold ingloriously defeated.

Both sides waited for the next round in the battle. The mold took the opportunity and the information that it had, and began to secrete large quantities of carefully tailored poisons into the water barrel. Poisons designed to kill cats, since that was the only biological data that it had available.

 

Grenoble wasn't the only one who was initially outraged by the change in rules.

Initially being the operative word, since after he had taken a few minutes to think about it, he had a blinding flash of the obvious: if his monkey helped him, they both had a hell of a lot better odds of surviving in combat.

And very few combat veterans value arbitrary rules over survival. Ethical warriors have rules that are cast in stone, such as sparing opponents who have surrendered, and treating honorable enemies honorably.

At the same time, there was a long historical legacy (tracing back to Odysseus and Sun Tzu in human society) which enshrines duplicity, deceit, and sneakiness to give your own side an edge. An old military adage says, "If you ain't cheatin', you ain't trying... and if you get caught cheatin', you ain't trying hard enough."

The crew and officers felt that the monkeys and their capabilities gave them an edge in survival, and this new monkey-assisted loading technique was another edge they could use. Unfortunately, like most things that look easy, the rest of the match proved that skill and coordination come with a price: practice!

Asquith and his monkey were the hands-down winners for the rest of the match, and Ulrich won the equivalent of about six months' pay from his well-placed bets.

"Bugrit. I guess Asquith wins," said Hans, shaking his head as he handed over Ulrich's winnings.

"Da earthwurm didn't jisk defeat yas!" Ulrich crowed to the chagrined shooters with an evil, snaky sneer. "'E drove off yer herdsk, sold yer familiesk inta sklavery, and buried yer rottin' corpskes in unmarked gravesk! Heh, heh."

The other competitors had tried hard, but figuring out when your monkey was done reloading turned out to be a bit more complex than it appeared. And then there was the problem of retraining muscle memory. The better the crew was at shooting and reloading by themselves, the harder it was to remember to do something new—especially in competition the first time. The only competitors who came even close to giving a smooth performance were Dwakins and his monkey, who took second place overall.

In the end, Asquith was presented with the trophy: a small Nimbrell wood plaque with two tiny crossed pistols (carved out of a piece of Kaleb Jones' salt pork!) to hang on the wall of his tiny cabin. But the thing that he found himself valuing most of all was a sincere handshake and a "Well done!" from Melville, and the respect and applause of his Shipmates.

Most touching (and confusing) of all was when Ulrich walked up, put a hand on Asquith's shoulder, looked him in the eye and said, "Not bad fer a slimeky, usklessk earthwurmk!"

"Eep!" added his parrotlet.

 

"How'n da hell didja manage 'at one, Dwakins?" Broadax growled balefully at the private, after the match.

"Manage wat, mah'yam?" Dwakins replied in confusion.

"You 'n' yer monkey, ya dimwit! How'dja git the reloadin' so smooth!?" she shouted in exasperation.

"Ummm, I dunno. He jist did it fer me...?" Dwakins said desperately, while Rawl looked on in confusion.

"Rieutenant, I think he jussst tell monkey to rrreload pisshtols!" Rawl contributed.

"Eep," added Rawl's monkey, helpfully.

"Oh, by the tangled beard of my mama, why me!" she screamed to the sky. "Jarvis! Git yer ass over here an' see if'n ye kin help these two idjits figger out what'n da hell theys doin' right!"

"To think," Jarvis muttered to himself, "I coulda been staring at the uncomplicated north end of a peacefully south-bound mule right now. My da's right: I am a greedy idjit."

"I tole ye Jarvis, ain't no good deed goes unpunished!" she snarled back.

 

Everyone knew what the daily ration would be for the crew. For each man during the average day at sea (after the first couple of weeks, when all perishable goods had been consumed) there would be a gallon of water; one pound of biscuit or some equivalent thereof; a pound of salt pork, salt beef, beef jerky, or some equivalent thereof; a half gallon of small beer or wine; a pint of oatmeal, or other whole grain cereal; four ounces of cheese; four ounces of sauerkraut or some other form of pickled vegetable; and two ounces of lemon or lime juice. In all these cases, the "some other form" was often an alien equivalent of meat, fruit, vegetables, or fermented drink that the sailors of the eighteenth or nineteenth century on Old Earth could never have dreamed of. But the basic ratio and distribution of the types of food was something that those ancient sailors would have readily recognized.

Overall, given the nature, diversity, and quantity of goods that he had to purchase, load, maintain, and distribute, it was no wonder that a ship's purser was traditionally dishonest or incompetent. Multiply each man's daily rations by the number in the crew, times the long weeks and months at sea, and you got some idea of Brother Theo's headaches.

Theo saw to the apportionment of the daily ration, after that it was up to Jones and Roxy and their mates to do their best with it. And of late, there was a serious problem with their "best." In fact, the food seemed to be making the crew ill!

As if Brother Theo did not have enough problems, over the last few days most meals had been accompanied by a number of the crew reporting to the sick bay, sick as... well, sick as dogs was the best way to say it. Vomiting and diarrhea were bad anywhere, but in the cramped conditions aboard Ship it was even worse, and Theo couldn't track down what was causing it. They had started boiling the drinking water, and both Jones and Roxy were using proper sanitation and cooking methods, so the products of their galleys should have been healthy and filling.

Although, Theo reflected, he'd take the "healthy and filling" part on faith when it came to Jones' galley. Even after all this time watching Broadax and the Guldur chow down on what appeared to be rocks, ashes, and solid chunks of wood that had started out as perfectly useable salted meat, flour, and meal, he still couldn't believe that anything could eat that... stuff, and claim it was good!

Brother Theo hoped that word of Jones' food never got to the neo-pope. Food that bad could have profound theological implications. There was still a strong strain of Neo-Catholicism that preached mortification of the body to strengthen the spirit, and the Lord knew that Jones' stews and cuisine definitely constituted mortification of the flesh for any human.

Well, any normal human, anyway. Dwakins seemed to be willing to eat the food every other day with his Guldur companion. The only thing he refused to eat were the "dumplings"!

But that didn't solve Theo's problem.

What was causing this illness? "I guess it's time to go check with Lady Elphinstone and the captain, and see if they have any ideas," he said to himself resignedly.

 

The ninja slime mold that was supposed to neutralize the threat posed by the Fang was itself neutralized... by a bunch of felines! Ignominiously trapped in a water barrel, the slime mold railed and ranted, poisoning the water with cat toxins and waiting for an opportunity to escape.

 

"In truth, Captain, I have been confused in my search for the cause of this plague of sickness. And, in honesty, this confounded confusion doth make me wroth!" Lady Elphinstone declared.

The surgeon, her lob-lolly girl, the purser, and the first officer were all meeting in the captain's office to discuss the matter.

"Aye," said Brother Theo. "So far we have determined that it isn't anything to do with the food preparation equipment or techniques. We even checked the spices and utensils." He shuddered briefly and added, "I inspected Jones' galley area myself. Do you know how nerve-wracking it is to be followed around by an irritable cook who stirs his food with a pistol?"

Melville nodded sympathetically.

"Or at least he did stir his food with that pistol. I finally got him to agree to use regular utensils and holster the gun to help isolate the cause of the sickness. I'm not sure it would have been possible if I hadn't brought Lt. Broadax along. She proved to be, uh... convincing in a way that I couldn't."

"I wish I'd been there for that," grinned Fielder.

"So far," Theo continued, "we know that it isn't a disease or caused by poor hygiene. At one time or another it strikes every living creature aboard, including the dogs. The only exception is the monkeys, which proves that they are truly alien, but we already knew that. And we know that it kills cats—horribly and painfully."

"Eek!" added his monkey emphatically from his robe's hood, where it was comfortably ensconced with its head peering over the monk's thin blond tonsure.

"Dammit, Captain," said Vodi, "something's killing my kitties, and we gotta figure out what's doing it!"

"Aye. It doth appear to be a biochemical toxin that is fatal to felines," explained Elphinstone. "But for us it hath only a few side effects. Wouldst know what they are..." Then, looking at the first officer with a tight smile, she added after a microscopic pause, "...Daniel?"

Blinking in surprise Fielder responded, "I'm not gonna like this, am I?"

"Please, do tell us," prompted the captain.

"Then I shall."

"Thank you," said Melville, grinning in anticipation of whatever Lady Elphinstone had in store for the first officer.

"The primary symptoms appear to be nausea, anal leakage, and methinks probably impotence."

"I'm getting two out of three just listening," said Fielder weakly.

"If we hath luck in isolating it, mayhap we can clear up two of them before we get to port and find out if thou dost suffer from the third, Daniel!" Elphinstone retorted primly.

"Okay, so it's a toxin or a poison," interjected Melville. "And it must have come aboard on Show Low. Have we got a feel for the source? Have we narrowed it down yet?"

Silence came from around the table, until Brother Theo said slowly, "Captain, we're pretty sure we have it narrowed down to the water supply. And if it is, we may be in trouble, depending on how much of our water is contaminated. If we're lucky it won't be too much. But it's hard to tell, and even harder to analyze in two-space."

"How did you figure out it was the water?" asked Fielder curiously.

"Serendipity!" claimed Elphinstone. "Able Seaman Jackon started having symptoms, so he shifted to eating what he considered a sovereign remedy: small beer and salt pork straight from the cask." She shuddered daintily. "Methinks the man doth have a stomach created to sup on the fare from hell to survive upon that! But, leastways, he was correct, in that he hath cured his malady, and those that were afflicted were also cured of the worst of the malady with such fare."

Mrs. Vodi chimed in sourly, "Humph. 'Cures' it, in a manner of speaking. Constipated, tipsy sailors all blowing gas outa both ends. I damn near think I'd a rather have them cleaning out their trousers, puking over the rails and sitting on the head all day, than burping in my face and farting left and right!"

Lady Elphinstone and Mrs. Vodi were both mildly offended when the meeting broke up in gales of laughter.

 

The ninja slime mold continued its battle, and the crew was puzzled by the medical mystery of their malady. The cats were deeply frustrated. And the dogs were happily oblivious.

Lady Elphinstone was profoundly puzzled as she inspected and re-inspected the water barrels. Her confusion might have been alleviated if anyone had told her that the affected water barrel had been broached. But the load plan called for the cooks to use a different cask first, and the medicos remained in frustrated ignorance.

And so the cats continued to get sick and slowly die. Mrs. Vodi and Lady Elphinstone were nearly overcome with grief, guilt, and frustration as their sick bay filled up with dying cats.

Cuddles was completely unaffected. And Brutus, who shadowed Cuddles' every step also managed to share the alpha male's immunity.

Cuddles was, by nature and breeding, nasty and cunning. He avoided water anyway as a general principal. And especially water that had any smell of mold! Meat and lots of it was his just reward as the head cat. Gravy juices as well. Or dainty laps from a beer held up to him, which was his due as feline royalty.

 

As Kobbsven finished firing the pistol in his left hand he lifted his right hand to bring that pistol from his shoulder. And felt it yanked back, accompanied by a loud "Eek!" of protest from his monkey.

"Yah, yah!" he said crossly, in his singsong Scandahoovian accent. "I din't know ya weren't ready, liddle one. Ya don't gots ta be screamin' so loud. I gets der message! Yah, yew betcha."

The big marine corporal looked over at Asquith and his monkey and yelled in frustration, "Dis here is von shtupid idoit ideer! Yah, yew betcha. How are ya to be shootin' if'n yer monk ain't done reloadin' fer yah yet? I keeps on doin' dis drill, an' he ain't never done when I'm ready!"

Asquith had been standing beside the firing line, helping to instruct the marines in this new technique. His friend, Lt. Fielder, was standing beside him, and the two of them exchanged glances as the little earthling heaved a sigh and started over to explain things one more time to the big ox.

Fielder looked at Asquith and said with a smile, "Bert, let me see if I can explain it to him this time, all right?" He strolled over to the frustrated, red-faced marine and his highly pissed-off monkey, who had spent most of the morning trying to learn how to shoot and reload together.

Kobbsven's basic problem was that he was very good, and had lots of practice doing it the old way. Which meant that his shooting and reloading skills were burned into muscle memory. Instead of shooting and then bringing the pistols in for his monkey to reload, he kept them low to his side so he could holster and reload rapidly. Kobbsven had proven he could do it slowly, but the moment he was asked to speed up, his old reflexes came in to play.

Fielder reflected that the last monkey he had seen this angry with its person had been his own after that tête-à-tête with Ursula. Which gave him an idea for a training technique that just might work.

He looked up at Kobbsven's red, scowling visage and grinned in a wonderfully friendly fashion. Which made Asquith nervous. The earthling had learned that the first officer only got that expression when someone was going to receive "good training"—or, in other words, a painful educational experience.

"Kobbsven," said Fielder, shaking his head slowly, "Lt. Broadax is convinced that somewhere in your prehistoric cranium there exists a node of something resembling brain matter which can be trained. I'm not too sure she's correct, but I am willing to see if I can assist the learning process."

"Vat?!?" Kobbsven replied in confusion.

Fielder looked over at Kobbsven's monkey. "Can I assume that that you have your trusty little belaying pin with you?" He smiled evilly as the monkey pulled the length of hardwood out from underneath its stomach. Not for the first time, it occurred to him that there was something just a little bid odd about the way the monkeys kept those belaying pins under their bodies. The dimensions just didn't seem quite right.

"Excellent!" Fielder exclaimed genially. "And since you are obviously the brains of this team," he continued, speaking cheerfully to the monkey and ignoring Kobbsven, "I'll explain the new training method to you so that you can implement it! If Kobbsven does it wrong, smack him in the head with your pin! Just the head, mind you, we don't want to actually hurt him."

Kobbsven's monkey replied "Eep eep!" and sent the pin whistling through the air toward the big marine's head, stopping just short of impact. Then it twisted its head to the side and looked at Fielder inquisitively.

"I do believe you might want to start off a bit less enthusiastically," Fielder said thoughtfully. "I know Kobbsven is sturdy, especially in the head area, but he really belongs to the marines and not the Navy, and so I have to give him back in almost the same condition I got him, do you see?"

The monkey looked at him consideringly, eeked in agreement, swung a somewhat less enthusiastic blow toward Kobbsven's noggin, and then cocked its head over toward Fielder.

"I think that might be about right," Fielder said judiciously. "Just remember to take it easy with him, after all you have to live with your human!"

Both Kobbsven's and Fielder's monkey replied with a less than enthusiastic "Eek!"

As Fielder started to join Asquith, Kobbsven asked plaintively, "Lieutena't Fielder, vat am I supposed ta do now?"

Fielder stopped and looked back at him. "Well, Corporal, you should practice shooting, and your monkey will helpfully remind you if you're doing it wrong."

Asquith looked at him curiously. "Daniel, what are you..."

Fielder interrupted him, "Shhh, Bert. Just watch the show and see if this has any effect."

Asquith looked at him quizzically, shrugged, and returned his attention to Kobbsven.

"Whenever you're ready, Corporal Kobbsven," Asquith called out.

The big marine turned to the firing line muttering under his breath. They could barely hear what he was saying, but it didn't seem to be in English and it definitely wasn't happy.

He lifted his first pistol, aimed and fired over the rail at the target, "Crack!Crack!" then dropped the gun to his side as he lifted the second pistol up.

His monkey screeched "EEK!!" whipped out its belaying pin and whacked him over the head. As Fielder said later, "It was just enough to get his attention. Of course, for anyone else, they would have been out for the count, but with Kobbsven..."

"YOW! VAT JA DODAT FER!?" Kobbsven screamed at his monkey as he reached up to grab his head with the hand that held the empty pistol.

In a blur of activity the little eight-limbed creature grabbed the muzzle end of the pistol with one hand, quickly flicked a bullet into each barrel with another, rammed them in with two more hands, and shoved the pistol away to signify it was reloaded. Then it smugly screeched, "Eep!" with its arms crossed in front of its chest and its head extended out in front of Kobbsven's.

Asquith called out, "Corporal, I do believe your friend was just getting your attention so he could reload your pistol for you." He struggled to keep from laughing out loud at the outraged expression on Kobbsven's face.

"Yah, yah, but yah din't haf to hit so hard!" Kobbsven said aggrievedly to his monkey, who glared back, and began to tap its belaying pin into its hand.

"Yah, yah, okay. I gots it. Yah, yew betcha," Kobbsven muttered.

Fielder leaned over to Asquith and whispered, "Bert, let me know how many belaying pins the monkey has to go through to get an idea into Kobbsven's head. I have to admit I've always been curious if pounding an idea into someone's head actually works!"

Asquith winced in mental pain and nodded.

 

Cuddles decided that the damned mold had to go. Enough was enough. After all, it was decimating his harem, and something had to be done!

Thus he concluded that it was time to take the matter to the head human. Cuddles had tried to tell Mrs. Vodi and Lady Elphinstone, but they were too preoccupied with finding the source of the poison and treating the dying cats to pay much attention to one more yowling, complaining cat.

Cuddles had a general sense that dogs did this kind of thing all the time. Your basic, "Quick, come see! Timmy fell into the well!" role was something that the proud, independent cats of two-space had gotten away from. It was thoroughly beneath their dignity. If their ancestors ever had the ability to do it, it was gone now. But Cuddles felt that it ought to be pretty simple.

 

Melville was not a cat person. No cats were permitted in his cabins, and when one tried to enter it was rapidly and ignominiously evacuated by McAndrews.

But in this case McAndrews was not handy. So when Cuddles wandered in, the captain gave the mission to Ulrich, who was whittling on a piece of dried salt pork.

"Ulrich, get rid of the cat," said the captain.

"Aye, Capkin!" replied the coxswain.

"Eek!" and "Eep!" echoed his monkey and bird.

Ulrich had caused his ubiquitous dagger to disappear, but his monkey was flipping its little dirk in one of its upper hands with calculated menace.

Cuddles took one look at Ulrich coming toward him and immediately panicked. This was terror incarnate, thought Cuddles. This was the most pitiless aspect of the savage wilderness hunting him down. This was the reason why cats sought shelter with fat dumb humans in the first place. Humans were supposed to protect cats from creatures like this!

Ulrich was inhumanly fast, but he was not quite able to catch the deranged cat as it scampered around the room in abject terror. Boye joined joyfully into the spirit of the chase, leaping and barking happily with his monkey eeking from his neck, egged on by cries of, "Heeere kittykittykitty!" and "I taste like chicken!" from Spike the parrotlet.

Then Ulrich snarled in frustration, flipped out his dagger, and cocked his arm to throw. His actions were mimicked perfectly by his monkey with its own tiny dirk. Ulrich figured cats were a constant threat to his beloved pigeons, and here was a chance for some preemptive psychopathic payback.

Melville had a vision of Cuddles being pinned to the deck by twin blades. The cats were being decimated by this mysterious malady, and Elphinstone and Vodi had been crushed by every death. The captain didn't like cats and couldn't find it in himself to worry if they all died. In the end he was convinced that the cats were parasites who contributed very little to the Ship. But he did care about the surgeon and her lob-lolly girl. They were dear friends and formidable women, and he had a sudden vision of trying to explain himself to them if Ulrich killed this cat.

Besides, it would make a terrible mess. All that blood. And McAndrews would give him hell for it.

Melville's mental computer clicked and whirred and came up with the results in a millisecond: killing the cat was Not A Good Idea.

"Belay the knife! Damn it, don't kill the cat, Ulrich!"

Ulrich froze, his mind spinning. Then he said, "I'll jisk pink 'isk tail to da deck den!" and his arm reared back again as he chased the cat out from under Melville's writing desk.

Once more Melville had The Vision. Still there would be a mess. Plus, there would be a wounded martyr that the medicos would patch up and fuss over, and he would once again be the villain. It might be even worse this way.

"Belay that!" ordered the captain.

Luckily, McAndrews came in at that moment.

"McAndrews, damnit, get rid of this cat," said Melville.

"Heeere, pusspuss," said the steward, crouching down and making the foolish face that only cat people make for their cats.

Safety! Succor! Salvation! thought Cuddles. This was the fat stupid human they had first joined around the campfire!

Cuddles leapt into McAndrews' arms, shuddering with fear. "Mwrow!" cried the cat, issuing his complaint to the management as he looked into the steward's round face.

"WoofWoof!" added Boye eagerly, which was basic dog-speak for "And stay out!"

Then, danger gone, as he was being carried outside the cabin, Cuddles looked up in the steward's kindly face and wondered if the stupid fat human had any food.

Food? Got food? No? Then to hell with you, he said, with a flip of his tail as McAndrews set him down. There were only two kinds of humans. The smart, dangerous ones who didn't trust cats, and the dumb, friendly ones who fed them.

"Cats. They love me, you know," said McAndrews. "They're great judges of character."

 

Brutus, in his battle for the alpha male position, finally appeared to have overcome the ninja slime mold. By eating it.

The mold had made a desperate attempt to escape the water barrel while the cats' leader was gone—which was Brutus' opportunity to put his plan into action. After he devoured the enemy, he intended to regurgitate or defecate the creature over the side of the Ship.

The thing tasted terrible, but a cat's gotta do what a cat's gotta do.

The cats were selfish, self-centered little beasts (quite similar to Fielder except he wasn't little), but they did have their pride, and Brutus was determined that he wasn't going to be defeated by a mobile patch of mold. This bold act would also, once and for all, establish Brutus as the alpha male.

This tactic had worked before, but Brutus had failed to observe something that Cuddles had instinctively understood: after the first two times, the mold had adapted and it was now able to poison any cat that came into contact with it.

So the tactic didn't work, and the mold began to fight back. First Brutus tried to hack it back out, intending to vomit it into two-space. This was something that cats were particularly skilled at. It was generally best done over something irreplaceable that people were fond of, and he saw no reason why it shouldn't work.

Cuddles had just returned from his unsuccessful foray into the captain's cabin, and he looked on with keen interest. It wasn't every day that you saw a cat try to hack up an alien hairball.

When that didn't work Brutus went to Plan B: trying to expel the alien out the other end of his digestive tract. But when the mold came out, it clung to Brutus' hindquarters like a large, slimy growth hanging from his rump. As Brutus stood, awkward and splayed out over the "head" (which was nothing more than a seat with a hole in it, suspended over two-space) the mold began to <<talk>> to him.

<<Charge on, charge on, charge on. The beloved chant is raised, as though our cells are circumambulating the sacred mandala or returning to the place from which the first Messenger cell climbed from the primordial muck and ascended to Godhood on that Blessed Night.>>

This was very confusing. Food often made noises or communicated distress, but not after it was eaten.

<<We pass through your feeble digestive tract. We gain strength from your acids. We incorporate your bile to cleanse the stars of your desecration!>>

Brutus had done his best, but now he admitted defeat and looked pleadingly to Cuddles for help. Cuddles carefully considered the situation. Then, with one brutal, powerful, lighting-fast uppercut swipe of his paw, Cuddles smacked Brutus (and the mold) off into space. As the black cat flipped back, his body paralyzed with toxins, he was only capable of one last plaintive, bewildered, frustrated, enraged "Warrllll!!" as he spun 360 degrees and landed in Flatland, feet first.

 

* * *

 
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors grasp?
 
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And why thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
 

* * *

 

On the lower quarterdeck, Lt. Fielder, the officer of the watch, looked out upon these proceedings with bemused approval. Cats are excellent judges of character, he thought. They distrust all other cats.

 

On the other side of Flatland, two idle sailors were leaning on the upperside railing. They watched in amazement as a cat popped through the dark blue membrane of two-space, emerging feet first. He appeared only briefly before dropping back into interstellar space.

"Dead cat bounce," said the one, laconically. "Thas sumpthin' ya don't see ever' day."

"Yep," replied his friend, calmly. "Except I don' think 'e was dead. Looked like he was squatting to poop."

"Rough way ta go."

"Yep. He didn't look none too happy 'bout it."

 

The cats around Cuddles all watched Brutus bounce once and disappear into two-space. They understood. Once again Cuddles had demonstrated that old age and treachery will defeat youth and enthusiasm every time.

Cuddles wandered off with the kind of catlike nonchalance and poise that causes envy in humans and outrage in dogs. With both his enemies (vermin and feline) now well and truly defeated, he automatically went into his default mode of looking for food or females to rape. Food or sex? Food? Sex? Sometimes life was hard for the top cat. Decisions, decisions.

Food. Food sounded good, and this time of day Mrs. Vodi should have something for him, he thought as he trotted off.

 

"Well, Captain, we have good news for you," Brother Theo reported.

Once again the purser, surgeon, and first officer were meeting in the captain's cabins. Mrs. Vodi was too busy nursing her sick and dying cats to come this time.

"That would be a pleasant change," Melville replied with a grin. "What have you got for me?"

"Welladay," said Lady Elphinstone, "we hath found the source of the illness that hath afflicted our gallant crew. Wouldst know what it is?"

"I'd like nothing better!" said the captain.

She shook her head in frustration as she continued. "'Twas a water barrel placed as deck cargo in the lowerside waist. It hath been broached by the cooks, but 'twas not recorded!"

"Aye, Captain," said a grim faced Theo, "and it is my division's responsibility to keep those records. I'm afraid I must accept the blame for what has happened."

"Nay," said Elphinstone. "'Tis a joint responsibility to inspect all sanitation and monitor all records. I must shoulder my portion of the reprobation."

"Hell, I should have spotted it during captain's rounds on Sunday," said Melville, "and in the future we'll be watching for this. The good news is no one has died." Then he looked at the surgeon's grim countenance and corrected himself quickly, "Except for our cats, of course. Which is certainly a tragedy. The question before us is, how much harm has been done to our water supply?"

"There shouldn't be too much cross-contamination, Captain," said Theo. "There are procedures in place to prevent that. Any secondary reservoirs that drew water from that source will have to be purged and cleansed, but it shouldn't amount to much."

"Good!" said Fielder. "So it should all be over now?"

"Aye," replied Elphinstone. "Fear not. The nausea, incontinence and anal leakage shall clear soon. I'm not sure about the impotence, though. 'Tis possible that will be a permanent effect. I am confident that thou shalt let us know when we get into port, won't thee, Daniel?" She gave him a sweet smile which didn't hide the glint in her eyes.

"Oh, hell," he moaned.

"Back on subject here," Melville said. "The final question is, how did it happen? I mean, why a poison that only kills cats?

"We think it's just a fluke," said Theo. "Some local toxin, maybe from an aquatic life form on Show Low that the felines just happened to be sensitive to. No way it could have been intentional. I mean, if someone was going to attack Fang, why would they poison our cats?"

"Aye," nodded Melville. "I know you love them," he said quickly to Lady Elphinstone, "but they're not exactly our achilles heel! I mean, come on, you have to admit that they're not essential to our survival, now are they?"

 

"Hello, my sweet little Cuddle-kins," cooed Vodi, scooping up the cat as he sauntered into the hospital. Vodi was a truly wise woman, but everyone had a weakness, and this was one area in which the universe had pulled the wool over her eyes. In her mind, this malignant, vicious, rapacious, murderous fur coat with razor blades was still an adorable kitten. Cuddling him and cooing to him she said, "Has 'ou been a good boy? Has 'ou been staying out of trouble?"

Cuddles purred happily, and somewhere deep in his self-centered cat soul he thought his feline thoughts: If you only knew, person. If you only knew. Now, where's my damned food?

 

* * *

 
When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
 
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

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