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CHAPTER THE 9TH
Forsaken: "Risk the Wrath of the Gods!"

 
Shove off from the wharf-edge! Steady!
Watch for a smooth! Give way!
If she feels the lop already 
She'll stand on her head in the bay... 
 
Raging seas have we rowed in
But we seldom saw them thus,
Our master is angry with Odin—
Odin is angry with us!
 
Heavy odds have we taken,
But never before such odds.
The Gods know they are forsaken.
We must risk the wrath of the Gods!

"Song of the Red War Boat"
Rudyard Kipling

 

The Fang and her crew sailed on, forsaken but not forlorn. The tin gods of the Admiralty were angry with them, and they were disgusted with the powers-that-be.

The important thing was that they had survived. Once again the Fangs had faced heavy odds. They had risked the wrath of the tin gods, and they had survived.

And that was good enough for now.

The good news was that at least Melville was now formally and legally the Master and Commander of the good Ship Fang, the crew and midshipmen had managed to put in some quality training time, and the Fang had been resupplied. The bad news was that they were forsaken: rejected, denied, and cast out by the Admiralty. And the unkindest cut of all came from NAVPERS.

The Naval Personnel Office was generally considered to be the Westerness Navy's version of Russian roulette. NAVPERS was responsible for all officer assignments, but it also assigned petty officers and warrants to Ships. And so, as one final indignity, NAVPERS (or some clerk hiding deep in the bowels thereof) had stolen away Roxy, their old, one-eyed, Jewish cook at the last moment before sailing.

There was still a good stock of food from the victuallers, since like all good department heads Roxy had completed refitting and resupply before going on liberty. She had been a sweaty, repulsive old figure, often with a chaw of tobacco in her mouth as she slaved over her boiling pots and pans, with a yarmulke pinned to her head. (Apparently, in her particular sect, the women wore yarmulkes.) But the fruit of her labors was the best Ship's fare anyone had ever known, and she was much appreciated and beloved. And during the mass-exodus of the boarding action in which they had captured the Fang, Roxy had proven herself to be hell-on-wheels in close-combat, with a meat cleaver in one hand and a pistol in the other. She would be missed.

Since drinking to excess, fighting, and consorting with the opposite sex are frowned upon aboard military Ships, that left eating and sleeping, reading and studying, competitions and crafts, drills and exercises, and daily duties as the main entertainments aboard. Eating was the first and foremost of these, and eating well was regarded as an absolute necessity to keep a crew's morale up.

All of which meant the assignment of Kaleb Jones, a graduate of the Westerness Naval Culinary and Catering School, was even more obviously a demonstration of NAVPERS' disaffection with the Fang. In fact, Jones was the worst graduate, with the lowest passing score ever seen. Which had resulted in his original assignment to the Admiralty galley being regarded as a masterpiece of revenge on the part of the Culinary and Catering School's commanding officer. No one was quite sure who he was trying to get revenge upon, but it was widely agreed that he had succeeded admirably! The situation was made even worse by the fact that Roxy's two best helpers had been assigned to Gnasher and Biter. All in all, it did not bode well for the stomachs aboard the Fang.

Thus it was a grim Shipload of Fangs who faced every meal with angry groans. Kaleb Jones was happily oblivious to the waves of hostility that came his way with every meal.

"Boys, I'm a gonna feed ya somethin' 'at'll change yer lives!" roared their new cook cheerfully, while he stirred the pot with the barrel of a loaded pistol. Jones had proven early on in Ship's competitions that he was deadly proficient with that pistol, and he handled his various chef's knives in a blinding blur of efficient activity that awed most sailors, so there was an understandable reluctance to confront him. "An' don' ya gimme no grief, now. I've spent all day chopping up these toothsome veggies and putting 'em in these damned cans fer ya. Heh, heh! 'Er majesty didn't send me to eight weeks o' catering school fer nothin'!"

It was almost as if he relished the curses and growls that his efforts received.

"Yum, yum," cried Jones. "We gots salt beef and this here alien mystery meat. Ya know wot they says. One meat is a meal, two meats is a feast! 'At's wot they told us grad-yew-ates o' the Royal Caterin' Corps, an' 'ats my motto! Well, come on boys, chow down!"

When no one stepped forward he continued to encourage them in his own, inimitable way. "Wot ya waitin' fer?" he cried, offering up a reeking slab of mystery meat on the end of his double-barreled pistol. "Ya ain't gonna durty up silverware fer this, air ya? It's toothsome finger food! Us members o' the Royal Caterin' Corps 'as got asbestos hands, but even wimps like you should be able to handle this."

Melville would have been worried about the safety of his new "cook" except for two things. First was the loaded, double-barrel, two-space pistol that the cook always held in his hand, and his demonstrated proficiency with said pistol and all of the other sharp implements of his profession. He stirred with that pistol, served with it, and did almost everything else that could be done with it in a kitchen. The other thing that probably kept the boy alive was the one singular exception to the almost universal disgust the crew had for Jones' cooking.

That one exception was Lt. Broadax.

At her first meal she showed up acting in her normal, morning, pre-coffee, pre-cigar fashion: grumpy and snarling to all in sight. And then, wonder of wonders, she smelled the lumpy, burned, and curdling porridge mess Jones had prepared for breakfast.

Josiah Westminster summed it up best in the wardroom later. "Well, it was like watching Boye the pup come up on something new and interesting. She actually stopped mangling that stogie of hers and stood up so tall she almost woulda hit my chest bone! Then she turns and starts sniffing. Ah wondered what had hit her and started sniffing myself, but all Ah could smell was the gawdawful concoction that miscreant masquerading as a cook had mangled to death and stuck on the serving line. And she walks over to the line and bounced the deck gang who was waiting to see who would give in to hunger first outta the way, and she leans over it and sniffs! And her eyebrows went up, and her beard starts aquivering, and she starts a playing with her ax, and Ah'm a thinking we were gonna get hurt trying to save the poor benighted idjit.

"Then she reaches out and grabs the plate from the nearest sailor and shovels in a bite, and Ah jist knew, Ah knew there was gonna be some blood. Ah mean even Cinder don't like that stuff and Lord knows she'll eat anything!

"So then there was one of those 'pregnant pauses' you're always hearing about, except this one gave birth to a litter of little puppy pauses, each one doing embarrassing things on the deck. And then damn me if she doesn't smile! Ah don't know about y'all but Ah don't remember her smiling anytime someone wasn't gonna get hurt. Ah have to admit Ah was considering right smart whether Ah should fade back or stay and watch the fun.

"And she ups and smiles again and takes another bite! And then she says, 'Ye know, I ain't et nothin' this good since I left home an' me dear ole mum's cookin'! We finally gots us a decent cook!' And she ups and wanders away, still smiling and eating! Ah haven't been so surprised since the neighbor's daughter taught me boys and girls were different!"

 

The indignity of having their beloved cook stolen away was slightly balanced by the arrival of their new carpenter, Joby DeWalt. A wide, loud, hairy bear of a young man with an engaging grin, he had arrived aboard at the last possible moment with an enormous chest of tools balanced on one broad shoulder, and a small bag of personal belongings hanging from the other hand.

The amazing thing was that he was a member of the Celebrimbor Shipwrights guild, specially assigned to be the Fang's carpenter. The young Celebri had outlined the situation to Melville with disarming honesty, in his booming voice.

"Well, sir," he said to Melville, "Your NAVPERS wasn't really too accommodating. They kept insisting your Ship had plenty of good solid bosun's mates who were capable of filling in as Ship's carpenter. But the Guild disagreed since we wanted to know more about your Fang, and NAVPERS finally decided to... reconsider. But for some reason they seemed a bit unhappy with sending me." Joby grinned slightly at this last, seeming to find a bit of humor in the situation.

"Well, Mr. DeWalt, that helps to explain why you're here," Melville said as he reflected upon the profoundly unappetizing lunch that McAndrews had delivered to him. "However," he continued as he pushed the plate aside, untouched, "as captain, I have to ask how your membership in the Celebrimbor Guild is going to impact your job as Ship's carpenter. The Guild are known to be somewhat, mmm, reticent about many aspects of our Ships."

Joby appeared to be a bluff, hearty young man, open and free, but the man that peered out through his eyes for a moment was one much older and much, much colder. "Sir," he said after a quiet moment, "I am a Celebrimbor master Shipwright. If it doesn't touch on my oaths or honor to the Guild, I am your man. Is that sufficient?"

For a moment, Melville and Fang, mixed together inside his soul, looked at DeWalt and sensed a kindred spirit that had been touched with the otherness of the Moss. Melville looked deep into those eyes and saw the fierceness and strength, the pain and joy that came with linking your soul to that of an alien creature. With a wry smile he said, "Yes, Mr. DeWalt, I believe that will be more than sufficient. On to other topics then. First, tell me what you think of our Fang."

Joby thought for a moment, scratching his red beard as he looked out into two-space through the stern windows in the captain's office. "Well, now, for a sloop, she really looks a bit like a three-masted frigate." He chuckled at his own joke and shook his head.

"Honestly, now, she's well found and masted, built strong as anything from our Shipyards. To be more than a bit honest, she's actually stronger and stouter than anything we've ever made, since we built for speed. The Guldur seem to have built for flat-out fighting ability, and capacity to withstand damage."

Melville nodded. "I suspected that. The Fang had to be able to handle the 24-pounders, so she was built tougher than most Ships. Even her mast and spars are remarkably stout."

"Yes, sir, and we're really interested in how you've used that strength to put up more sail and get more speed out of her than anyone would have thought possible." Then Joby grinned and started a comparison, an almost frame-by-frame comparison, of the strengths and weaknesses of the Fang to the Ships of the Author and Poet classes. While interesting in itself, after the first five minutes Melville began to wonder what he had unleashed upon himself and tried to intervene.

"Do you know, Mr. DeWalt, that is absolutely the best analysis I have heard of the Longsworth's cargo space loading." At least he tried to say that, with his monkey adding a desperate "Eeek, Eeek!" But Joby continued on, apparently entranced by his subject matter and oblivious to the increasingly desperate attempts by Melville and his monkey to break into his monologue.

Despite his interest in the subject and his pleasure at having a Celebri Shipwright assigned to his Ship, Melville couldn't help but wonder if putting young DeWalt aboard might have been part of the Admiralty's none too subtle revenge. As his monkey essayed another leap into the air, he kept wondering if there was any way to shut the man up so he could get back to work!

 

While most of the crew was settling back into the cycle of work, sleep, and play without any real difficulty, the middies themselves were having trouble returning to their usual cycle of learning and mischief. After finding their lives expanded by the high-tech world of Earth and the myriad forms of visual entertainment so readily available, they found another enduring truth: withdrawal from any addiction, no matter how brief or mild, is unpleasant. In this case, the addiction was to violent visual mush in the form of classic television and movies.

Brother Theo knew what they were going through. It took about four days to detox from a heavy diet of violent, visual entertainment. Which is why the first three days of most summer camps for kids in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries were pure hell, but by the end of the week, the kids didn't want to go home! For the first time in their lives those children were surrounded by other healthy kids, and they were healthy as well!

Theo kindly tried to help, in the finest Navy fashion, by keeping the boys working harder than they had since refitting the Fang after battle. "Young gentlemen," he declared, "your immersion in the classics of TV and movies was of great value in your professional development, but it was also kind of like going on a drinking binge, or a drug trip.

"The effect that you are feeling was almost the undoing of civilization in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. By the early twenty-first century, the average child in America was spending forty-five hours a week in front of the tube, and the impact was so toxic and powerful that when schools started programs designed to convince kids (and their parents) to turn it all off, the improvement was stunning and irrefutable. The first school district in human history to turn off all TV, movies, and video games was Escanaba, Michigan, in the early twenty-first century. That momentous occasion, which has been called the 'Escanaba Miracle' led the way for a staggering, worldwide decrease in violence, bullying, sleep deprivation, and obesity, and tremendous improvements in test scores, attendance, academic achievement, learning, and behavior.

"John Lang, a particularly astute observer from that turbulent era, wrote a nice piece of poetry that communicates the growing concerns of the time:

 
"Back in Medieval days
Cathedrals once held Passion Plays
Since Peasants couldn't read but only look;
That's how they learned the lessons
In the Bible's many sessions,
For few people could afford a hand-penned book.
 
"Technology's new printing press
Soon made books cost a whole lot less
And people started reading far and wide;
Soon words were found on bonds and stocks
And on your breakfast cereal box,
Where many kids' first words were 'Free Inside!'
 
"Our stories now are mostly seen
On TV's or the movie screen
And reading books scares strong, stout-hearted men.
Technology is paving ways
To lead us back to Passion Plays,
And might just send us further back again.
 

"Of course," Theo continued, "we now know that the impact of violent visual imagery goes much further than just undermining literacy. By the early twenty-first century they had brain scan studies demonstrating that a steady diet of violent visual imagery resulted in emaciated, malnourished forebrains, catastrophically shut down left-brain processing, and overdeveloped midbrains. Which is the state you gentlemen are in today.

"We let you go on this little electronic binge for the learning experience and the exposure to the great classics. But I think you can see how potentially addictive it could be if you had access to it all the time. Never forget that the electronic screen is a cross between Medusa and Cyclops. It has one eye and turns you (or at least your brain) into stone. The only known cure is to make sure you sweat the stone out of your brains! And your hind ends as well!"

With the assistance of Lt. Fielder and Mrs. Vodi, Brother Theo managed to keep their every waking moment, and not a few of their sleeping dreams, filled with studies and work. All in all, he felt that they were recovering nicely from their battle and the subsequent overdose of technology they received on Earth.

Already the effects of their last battle were fading. Memories of Shipmates killed and crippled friends left on Earth had become like old scars, forgotten except when a twinge brought them to painful remembrance. Remembrances which were dealt with by breathing ("In through the nose, two, three, four..."), gentle counseling, and more hard work.

"Remember your training," said Brother Theo in one session, "we have talked about how the body reacts after you have been in a fight: a real fight, a killing fight, where even if you know you are doing right, it is hard, because you and your friends are in peril, and some won't come back. Anything can trigger your memories of that incident and those remembrances are powerful and will affect you." He paused, "Or any one of us," he continued quietly. Gunny Von Rito, and several other hardened veterans, who were leaning against the rail nearby, nodded slowly. "The only cure is time, and applying the old maxim: pain shared is pain divided, and joy shared is joy multiplied. Never forget, you must talk about the incident—and when you do, you must focus on the positive aspects. You cannot not think about something. Trying to not think about the event can send you down the path of madness."

One of the crew lounging nearby called out, "'Pain shared is pain divided?' How does that apply to our so-called breakfast, Brother?"

Amid a background of combined moans, groans, and laughs Brother Theo replied, "I stand by my statement, my son. After all, contemplate upon how you would feel if you had to consume it all by yourself."

"Eep!" added his monkey, and then they delved back into the lessons at full speed.

 

Lt. Fielder had just settled into the morning watch when he saw Cuthbert Asquith XVI wander over to the rail. While Asquith was not normally a dandy, he usually looked quite a bit more put-together than he did this morning: unshaven, a bit pale in the face, and somewhat disheveled. It might not have been noticeable on another man, but for Asquith it was like a waving flag saying, "I... I... I don't feeeel so goood...' Even his monkey looked downcast and dejected.

Fielder walked up to him quietly and said, "Bert, what's the matter?" Then he offered optimistically if not too hopefully, "Did one of Jones' so-called meals finally poison someone enough that we can fire him?"

"Thanks for your concern, Daniel. But, no, he hasn't succeeded in poisoning anyone... yet. That I know of. Although I do think his 'chef's special' today was Heimlich maneuvers..." He sighed. "Do you know, I never understood why they called it a 'mess' in the old books until I started eating, or rather trying to eat his cooking."

Fielder laughed quietly and said, "Well, according to Lady Elphinstone the food is in fact nutritious and healthy and will sustain life indefinitely, or at least as long as you can stomach it. She says that by Dwarrowdelf standards the food would be considered adequate, if not outstanding, due to its soft texture."

"Soft!" Asquith exclaimed. "Soft, she says? Daniel, there was a sailor last night who was using some of the salt meat in the stew as a carving medium. He said it had softened just enough he didn't have to use a chisel to work it!"

 

Off in the distance, their new cook was waving his pistol in the air and berating a sailor who had complained that the meat was too tough. "Just set about it with a couple of forks," explained Jones. "If 'at don't wurk, ya just kind of maul it with a bit of knife work..."

 

Fielder found it hard to maintain his usual sardonic humor in the face of this situation and stared glumly off into the stars of two-space. "Like I said, the Dwarrowdelf would consider it a bit soft. Lady Elphinstone reminded me that food under high gravity has to be fairly dense simply to grow upright, which means those who eat it have to have equally stout teeth and jaws." He sighed again. "Like Broadax's."

"Yeah, Daniel," replied Asquith. "Broadax certainly seems to like it."

Fielder chuckled. "Apparently so, Bert. And since she is happy, life is better for the marines and sailors she has to work with, which means they have a Catch-22 situation: if they complain about Jones and get him replaced, then they have to deal with an unhappy Broadax; but if they keep Broadax happy, they have to eat Jones' cooking."

"Damned if they do, and damned if they don't", Asquith laughed. "And here I thought I had some difficult decisions."

 

Again a snatch of angry conversation came to them from the mess line.

"I saw ya put innocent potatoes in there," cried a sailor, "an' this is wat came out. How can you git potatoes to be so tough?"

"Ya just cooks 'em fer a long time. Tumble 'em in, bobble 'em around, and fry the hell out of 'em. Fry the hell out of 'em, 'at's my motto. An' a dab o cookin' sherry. Ya needs lots a cookin' sherry. Call me obvious, but ya can never have too much cookin' sherry or bitterash root. At's my motto."

 

"What's troubling you then?" Fielder asked, looking around to check on the Ship and make sure they were relatively private.

"Well," Asquith said shyly, "a while back Lt. Archer was telling me about... dreams." He paused, then said, "He was telling me about dreams where the subconscious is sending a message and he mentioned that when you start having dreams of failure that your unconscious mind is telling you to practice."

Fielder nodded and said, "Generally, that's the interpretation of those types of dreams. In the sports world they're called 'performance anxiety dreams.' Guns not working in your dreams means you need to practice shooting. Punches that don't have any effect on your opponent represent a lack of confidence, and hard training can provide that confidence. I've had those a time or two myself. Especially when I'm, umm, escorting a married woman," he said with a leer.

"Married women? Daniel, isn't that dangerous with that barbarian custom of dueling that you Westerness types have?"

Fielder laughed. "That would explain why I only get those dreams when my current girlfriend is married. But that doesn't answer your question, Bert. What kind of dream are you having?"

"Pistols... guns..." he mumbled. "Damned things won't work. Just sort of wilt in my hand. Or bullets droop out the barrel. So my mind is telling me I need to learn about the damned things? I never wanted to be a duelist. I never wanted to go into combat! I never even wanted to leave Earth again!"

Fielder looked at him with a brief feeling of sincere affection. Sort of like you'd feel for a frightened pet bunny. "Look, Bert, you're getting a few things confused here. There is a huge difference between a duel and combat. The only similarity is that in both cases someone is trying to kill you. And the same training generally works for both. The best protection that you can have in a violent galaxy is to be deadly proficient with a pistol. Not to win duels. The whole idea is to avoid duels. The goal is to make it clear, to any potential enemy, that challenging you is tantamount to suicide. In the real world, most of the time, people don't go around looking for the fastest gun to beat in a fair battle. That's a myth from the Earth's Old West. It's the paradox of combat: in the real world, the better able you are to kill someone, the less likely you are to have to do it."

Asquith was silent for a while, thinking it over. Fielder stood by companionably, waiting for him to decide what he wanted, hoping the little man would decide to learn pistolcraft. While it might not be necessary, it could just save his life. And, he reflected, surprising as it was, Asquith had developed into a friend. Life was long. Things changed. People changed. And a tincture of time combined with native intelligence was one of the best medicines for curing ignorance.

Asquith sighed. "Well, what do I have to lose?"

"Aye," said Fielder. "My Grandma BenGurata always said, 'It's best to learn skills at leisure, just in case circumstances force you into a career change. And change is the only certainty in life.'"

 

Fielder believed in the general principle of striking before your victim gets a chance to talk himself out of the idea. So he arranged for Brother Theo to give Asquith his first lesson off the upperside stern, or "fantail" of the Ship. This allowed for Fielder to be nearby on the upper quarterdeck to observe and assist, and to store up a few embarrassing anecdotes for a time when Asquith, or others, would enjoy them. This location also kept most of the idlers from kibitzing or otherwise "helping" the earthworm learn the basics of survival.

Brother Theo was more than happy to teach Asquith, since it gave him an excuse to spend a morning shooting and teaching. Two things he loved to do. As Asquith learned quickly, Brother Theo did love the sound of his own voice, although this was leavened by his sincere interest in his pupil, and in the subject matter.

"Mr. Asquith, first, you have to understand that all we can do is train you to operate a weapon: to use it effectively and efficiently when needs must. The ability to actually fire the weapon and extinguish a life at the moment of truth must come from within." His monkey eeked emphatically at this, causing Brother Theo to twitch a brief grin at the little creature on his shoulder. "I would like to assert that the likelihood of such an event is doubtful, but based on recent history..." he trailed off with a slightly sad smile.

Asquith sighed. "I know, and I believe I need to learn the skill. I understand the need for it, but I must admit I'm not too happy about it."

Brother Theo nodded. "You are playing at the edges of the 'paradox of the warrior' that has followed us throughout civilization. You see, the warrior must have the skill, and the will to kill. The young soldier, sailor, or marine is issued a weapon and learns the skill. That is the easy part, and it does not make him a warrior. Next, he must understand, he must truly comprehend the fact that weapons kill. The full magnitude of the act of killing must hit him, and he has to deal with it, which should make him reluctant to take up his weapons, unless he believes it is truly necessary. And that is the vital step in the evolution of the true warrior: realizing what weapons can do, and still believing in the necessity to protect yourself and your loved ones. So, grasp it, understand it, and don't let go of it. Weapons exist to kill."

"Then why don't you store your weapons away if they're so dangerous? Why do you have them on you or near you so much of the time?" Asquith asked curiously.

"Ah, grasshopper," Brother Theo answered with a chuckle, "there are no dangerous weapons. There are only dangerous men! And to deal with dangerous men in a dangerous world, you must be dangerous! Ergo, you need a weapon, and the skill and the will to use it.

"Now," continued the monk, "you have asked a terribly important question. An inquiry which demands a response! Why must we have our weapons with us?"

"Oh, no," Asquith groaned. "Is there any chance of getting the short answer here, or am I going to have to hear it all before I get to shoot?"

"Watch it, Mr. Asquith, you're starting to sound like my poor midshipmen when I lecture them!" He grinned at the earthling, and continued, "Seriously though, we must avoid what Saint Blauer called a 'lip service, fortune cookie mindset.' Like, 'Be the willow, bend don't break.' That's just splendid. Thankyouverymuch. But a fortune cookie could have done about as much good! The key question to ask is, 'Do I have a tangible, useful skill afterward?' So, what will it be, a fortune cookie, or a skill that will stick to your ribs and be there for you when your life depends on it?"

"Well, when you put it that way, I guess I'm here to learn a skill."

"Good!" replied Theo. "So the answer is that teaching someone to use a weapon gives you conscious skills. It's only when you live with a weapon and carry it with you at all times that it becomes an unconscious part of you, so that it will be there when you need it most. To be honest, carrying a weapon is inconvenient, often uncomfortable, and frequently, if you will pardon a man of the cloth using vulgarity, a royal pain in the arse!"

"If you'll forgive me saying so, you don't always sound very, um, 'pious' I think is the word."

"Some folks wear their halos much too tight," said Theo with a chuckle and a self-deprecating shrug. "I figure God wants spiritual fruit, not religious nuts."

Asquith laughed. "Well, anyway, if carrying a gun is so blessed inconvenient, why do it? Why not just keep it somewhere nearby so you can get to it when you need it?"

"I'll answer that," replied Fielder, who had been listening. "My favorite literary character says, 'When you need a gun, you need it very badly, and nothing else will do.'"

"Pre-zactly," replied Theo. "I like to explain it this way. If I have it on me, no one else can take it from me. And when I need it I probably won't be able to plan exactly when the occasion will be. So if it isn't on me, I won't have it!"

Fielder snorted and said, "That's a hell of a long-winded way of saying the same thing," and then he wandered off to torment some errant soul up in the rigging.

"And," added Theo, "as St. Farnam put it, 'Carrying a gun also imparts a sense of self-respect, indeed nobility, to the carrier. He continually confirms in his own mind that his life and health are important and worth defending and that he, not some unit of government, is the one primarily responsible for his own safety and well being. It is the ratification of the doctrine of individual responsibility.'"

"Huh!" said Asquith, mulling that over carefully.

"Enough of that, my friend!" declared Theo. "This is your standard Westerness two-space pistol, commonly referred to as 'old reliable.' And it is, indeed, reliable. So long as you take care of it and keep it either on you or stored next to the Keel at all times so that the effects of two-space are minimized. Two barrels, each with a Keel charge at the end which acts as a trigger when you thumb it, one sight, one rod to ram the bullets home, and a pouch of bullets to practice with."

He looked Asquith directly in the eye. "I discussed this with the captain. He agreed that if you were interested and motivated, this pistol is yours. And to make it a bit more desirable, I'll tell you a secret. This is one of the pistols Gunny Von Rito tuned up and customized for me, so you can count yourself among the rare recipients of his craftsmanship."

Asquith was silent for a moment. He looked away into the distance of two-space and then looked back and said with a slight grin, "Well, perhaps we should help me figure out what I should be doing with this pistol so I don't embarrass us all."

Brother Theo chuckled heartily and said, "Well then sir, you have asked for it! First, this is the front sight..." and he continued happily into the first lesson of pistolcraft for his newest student.

 

Ulrich had picked up a genuine parrotlet—a kind of pygmy parrot—while he was on Earth. He named the tiny green bird "Spike" and kept it on one shoulder. He and his monkey were teaching it to talk. Ulrich was training it to say, "I'm Spike! I taste like chicken!" and "Heeere kittykittykitty!" His monkey was teaching it to say, "Eep!"

This project was one of the many things that Ulrich did to keep himself entertained while he did the officers' laundry. Most of the time the little coxswain didn't mind washing and pressing for the officers. It needed to be done right, and no one bothered him while he was doing it. Besides, it helped keep his skipper looking impressive, and Ulrich knew better than anyone that appearance could overawe the opposition as much as any weapon. And it did make it easier to kill them when they were overawed, which was something that Ulrich heartily approved of.

The officers' laundry facility and Ulrich's pigeon cages were wedged into a small "head" that protruded like a barnacle from the side of the Ship. Under ordinary circumstances, any crewman would come to the head to sit in comfort and drop his waste into two-space. But this head was the coxswain's private domain. He was walking toward his area when he heard a sound that was out of place. It almost sounded like a voice but no one came down here unless they had to. Most of the weaklings couldn't handle the smell of the laundry and the pigeons combined.

He dropped the laundry bag he was carrying and drew his pistol as he slowly sidled down the passageway toward the sound. He slid down low and risked a quick peek around the corner, and then stood up suddenly in disgust.

"Hey!" he said, as he holstered his gun and walked around the corner. "Jist wat da hell ya thinks yer dewink?" Remarkably enough, the little sociopath was only curious instead of angry, a situation that most of the crew would have sworn was impossible.

"Urk!" grunted Asquith as he tried to simultaneously turn and keep from dropping the bag of bullets, ramrod, and pistol he was juggling in his hands.

Ulrich flicked out a fast fingertip and casually redirected the muzzle of the pistol out over the side as Asquith's monkey made a dive and caught the bag of bullets and the ramrod with a scolding "Eeek!" The earthling's helplessness actually made Ulrich feel somewhat expansive, a condition which might be charitably referred to as peevish in a normal sailor.

Asquith blinked his one good eye rapidly a few times while he opened and closed his mouth. He finally squeaked out, "Practicing!" and started to wave the pistol upward as a demonstration, which move was quickly forestalled by Ulrich pointing it over the side again.

"An' jisk wat are ya practicink? How ta juggle a piskol over da side o' the Ship?" Ulrich shook his head in mild bemusement. Finding an earthworm, practicing with a pistol no less, outside his laundry was not something he ever expected to see! The surprise actually rendered him close to something normal people called agreeable—so long as you could call a highly violent, volatile and unpredictable sociopath agreeable.

"No, ummm, actually reloading rapidly. Brother Theo and Lt. Fielder both agree that I have the basics down and simply need practice. Actually, Lt. Fielder said a few tens of thousands of practice shots was all I would need. I think he was joking a bit, though, I mean, tens of thousands of bullets, I mean..." Realizing he was babbling, Asquith shut up and just stood there.

Ulrich on the other hand was digesting the revelation that both Brother Theo and Lt. Fielder thought this man had the basics down. The coxswain knew both of them well and liked neither of them. (Actually, Ulrich didn't like anyone aboard the Fang, with the possible exception of his birds and his captain.) But he did respect their abilities with guns. Especially Fielder when he had a .45 auto. The man was useless unless he was forced to fight and then he was damned near as fast as Ulrich.

"Damned idjits gotsk it mesked up anyhowsk. Ya gotsk a monkey an' he's willink ta help. Get two piskols, an' give the monk the bulletsk an' ramrod. Like dis." He grabbed the bag of bullets and slung it over his shoulder so the mouth was near the monkey on his shoulder, and took the pistol and ramrod and handed the ramrod to the monkey.

"Now if'ink you're inna furball, in a real fight, yer monkey'll be busy usink 'is belayin' pin ta keep yer puny haid t'gether. So's it ain't gonna be this faskt, but he's buttloads faskter 'n you. Hell, he's faskter 'n I am, but don't tell the l'il baskard, he'll jisk git a swelled haid." The monkey on the coxswain's shoulder added an amused "Eep!" Asquith couldn't think of a single monkey aboard that looked so, well, feral was the only word that seemed to describe it.

Suddenly Ulrich lowered the pistol and aimed outward, and his thumbs touched the Keel charges rapidly one after the other <<purr!>> "Crack!" <<purr!>> "Crack!" as the pistol fired, and then he laid the muzzle on his shoulder pointing up as he pulled another pistol up in his left hand and fired rapidly again.

Where did that gun come from!? thought Asquith.

Meanwhile Ulrich's monkey used one hand to snag a bullet, drop it down a barrel, and ram it home with the other hand while repeating the process in the other barrel. Ulrich brought the pistol to the ready and fired, <<purr!>> "Crack!" <<purr!>> "Crack!" as he laid the left-hand pistol in the hollow of his right shoulder so the monkey could reload it using the same rapid series of movements. The pistol in his right hand pivoted up to his monkey's hands as the left hand presented and fired, <<purr!>> "Crack!" <<purr!>>"Crack!" and returned to be reloaded as Ulrich pointed the pistol over the side.

"Eep!" said Ulrich's monkey with smug satisfaction.

"Eep!" echoed his parrotlet, bobbing its head and peering down the bore of the pistol curiously.

Asquith and his monkey stared at Ulrich and his monkey, then looked at each other, then back at Ulrich again. Ulrich flipped the gun in his right hand around and held the butt out as he made the one in his left hand disappear in the same mysterious fashion it had appeared in the first place. "I told ya ya wuz doinink it wrong." he said.

"An' only practicek it here. Itsk our secret. Ya hear me?" Ulrich snarled and looked at Asquith with feral malice. The diminutive earthling gulped and nodded in sincere agreement.

"Dat dam'd gun's loaded. Ain't suppoz ta be empky. Ain't no good ta no 'un empky. Gun's gotta be loaded, got me?" He glared at Asquith.

Asquith took the gun cautiously, feeling like he was playing with unstable explosives. He was careful to keep the pistol pointed well away from this awful little man while he accepted the bag of bullets with his other hand. "Ummm, yes, I believe I do, and rest assured I will keep it properly, uhh, loaded, I mean, uhh..." He trailed off, watching to see what would come out of this scary, sawed-off sociopath next.

"Good", Ulrich grunted. His monkey seconded with an emphatic "Eep!" which was again echoed by his parrotlet. Then he turned and crabbed off around the corner toward his laundry and his pigeons.

"Eek!" said Asquith's monkey.

"Hmm," Asquith replied, looking meditatively after the dangerous little man. "That was a singular experience. I wonder if I can fit him in the next book?" He shook his head as he handed the bag of bullets and the ramrod to his monkey. He wondered if Brother Theo would be averse to giving him another pistol as he turned back to his solitary practice.

He started to scratch his nose, and his monkey gave a startled "Eeek!" and whacked the muzzle of the gun away from his nose.

"Oops," he mumbled. Maybe Daniel was right. It might take a few tens of thousands of rounds just to get the reflexes right!

 

Captain Thomas Melville, Master and Commander of Her Majesty the Queen of Westerness' Frigate the Fang felt pretty good as he stepped on the main deck early in the morning watch. The morning report from the watch officer had placed them on track and more than halfway to Lenoria. Fang was content with her lot and he felt her rumble happily beneath the surface of his mind, like a sated lion sprawled out in the warmth of the day.

The canvas overhead belled full with the winds of two-space , and the day watch was industriously cleaning, stowing, and working on the myriad things necessary to keep a Ship operational as a warship. Brother Theo was giving a lecture while the midshipmen were working on some project, and the marines were, ummm, what were they doing?

Looking aft, he saw Lt. Broadax leaning against the redside rail, eyes fixed overhead at her marines swinging through the rigging in a single line. She had a manic grin on her face and a cloud of smoke swirling around her as she watched her marines skylarking high overhead. Her monkey was also conspicuous for its absence.

"An' da best o' da mornin' to ye, sir!" she said as Melville came up to her.

"And to you, Lieutenant. Might I ask what your marines are doing this morning, swarming through the rigging like monkeys?" he replied quizzically.

"Jist a li'l mornin' PT, Cap'n!" she replied. "I'd be up with 'em, but I'm sorta dawdlin' over breakfast this mornin'. Ya know, that Jones boy is a genius. This food is tongue swallerin' good! I don' know where he got sweet noodles an' bitterash root fer spicin' but 'at's da best damned porridge I've et since I joined da marines. Seems he wus taught by a visiting Dwarrowdelf cul-er-nary specialist at the Royal caterin' Acadermy! An' the boy done took right to it! Now ain't that a stroke o' luck! An' yew know wat that boy tol' me today?"

"No, what did he say?" replied Melville hesitantly.

"E sez, 'Ya gotta add enough that it doesn't taste as if yer being apologetic about yer spices. At's wat they tot us at the Royal Caterin' Academy. 'At means hole hog or none, to you uneducated sorts!'"

Broadax shook her head admiringly and continued, "Makes me feel almost homesick. An' I thot my boys might appreciate a li'l game fer PT this mornin', jist ta keep their sweat glands happy. So's my monk's off leadin' the parade while I finish my breakfast!"

No doubt about it, she was fairly chortling with pleasure as she savored her food and watched her marines swing by overhead. Then Melville thought about what she had said, and blurted, "Bitterash root? You mean the breakfast was supposed to taste that way?" He couldn't help but be aghast at the thought, as his morning breakfast of what he had thought of as river rocks and burnt sticks rolled over in his stomach.

"Yessir! Best I've had in years! Put me in a good mood I gots ta say. Ready fer some liberty in Lenoria wit Hans there." She paused for a second and then almost whispered, "Hey, skipper, is it true that stogie smoke kin mess up 'lectronical stuff?"

Melville's eyebrows rose before he could catch them. He was still somewhat flabbergasted that Jones' food might be tasting the way he had intended it to taste. And he was stunned to find a genial and voluble Lt. Broadax he had never imagined existed.

"Ummm, actually, Lieutenant, I understand that cigar smoke can cause some significant degradation of electronics equipment," he replied with a touch of confusion. "It's not something you really have to worry about, except on Earth. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I wus buyin' a bit o' a surprise fer Hansie 'at this 'Secrets' place, an' the li'l bints made me put it out. Then they had me skin outta me mail fer fittin' them frilly things. Anyway, I wuz curious if they wuz tellin' me true," she replied absently as her eyes sharpened to a glare at her marines.

"'Scuze me, sir," she mumbled as she stomped forward toward the hatch that the marines were currently using to dive between the upper and lower gundecks. "I tole ye, one atta time down 'at line, ye misbegotten idjits!" she snarled as she moved forward. "Are ye tryin'ta turn yerselfs inta brainless sailors insteada brainless marines?"

 

Melville was still standing where she had left him. "Broadax and lingerie?" he muttered. "Hansie?" The thoughts that bounced through his head were combining with his river rocks and burnt stick breakfast to make a previously wonderful morning entirely too interesting.

He looked at his monkey who looked back at him, apparently equally stunned. "You know," he said quietly, "there's an old Chinese curse that wishes you should live in interesting times."

The monkey let out a small, inquisitive "Eep?"

"Makes me wonder which old Chinese guy I got mad at me," he finished as he stepped up the ladder to the upperside quarterdeck. The monkey's emphatic "Eek!" made him wonder—for the umpteenth time—just how intelligent their pint-sized companions actually were.

As he reached the quarterdeck, the watch officer, Lt. Fielder came up to him.

"Good morning, sir," said Fielder, saluting as the captain approached. "By the stunned-ox look on your face I see that you have already had the pleasure of Lt. Broadax's company this morning."

"It's that obvious, is it?"

"She was up here talking with me earlier, sir," Fielder said with a barely suppressed grin.

"She's in a... pleasant mood, it would seem," replied Melville.

"Oh, yes, sir! She was going on about shopping in Earth stores for trinkets and lace and..."

"Stop!" Melville said as he held up a hand and shook his head, laughing. "I think this comes under the heading of TMI—too much information for me to process first thing this morning. Plus, I'm still wrestling with the idea that Kaleb Jones' meals are coming out exactly the way he planned!"

Fielder blinked and looked at Melville. "You mean he's not incompetent? So he must be trying to kill us!" Then he added with a shudder, "Well, all of us except Broadax, who is apparently convinced he's a culinary genius."

Melville grinned wryly. "According to our good marine lieutenant, this morning's disaster was actually something like sweet noodles with bitterash root seasonings. And also according to her, it was surprisingly delicious! And, apparently, good cooking—at least her idea of it anyway—is the quickest way to our Broadax's heart."

"Humph," Fielder replied with feeling. "The quickest way to her heart is through the chest wall with a knife! Or at least that's what I would have said before I saw how she reacted to Jones' cooking."

"Hmm."

"You know, sir," Fielder continued after a moment's thought. "If we had anyone aboard who could have done the job at all I would have begged you to replace Kaleb. Right now though the crew is sort of stuck at an impasse: Jones' food means Broadax is happy, and for some reason it seems to trickle down and make their lives better. On the other hand, feeling like you're getting poisoned at every meal is not exactly good for morale. I think if it wasn't for the marines, that pistol Jones carries all the time, and his demonstrated skills with said pistol and his knives... Well, if not for that, I have little doubt that one of the watches might have tried to recalibrate Jones' cooking skills before this. And even with all that going for him, I wouldn't want to be in Jones' shoes right about now."

Melville sighed. "Yes, I know. Unfortunately the only person we have aboard who could conceivably take his place is Mrs. Vodi. But she and Lady Elphinstone were both emphatic that she is only competent preparing food on a small scale and has no experience with using the large Keel burners. Besides, her full attention is required for her regular duties. Maybe we should have him prepare a human recipe instead of a Dwarrowdelf recipe?"

Fielder shook his head mournfully. "Already been tried. Remember the piece of black wood we had for dinner last night? Or was it leather?" he wondered aloud.

"Oh, yes," Melville replied with a shudder.

"That was a porterhouse steak," Fielder said with finality. "The operative word being was."

"Oh," Melville replied. "Damn."

Shaking off his mood, Melville took his leave of the quarterdeck and went forward to where Brother Theo was holding lessons for the midshipmen in his usual location, on the upperside waist.

The midshipmen all had knife blanks in front of them. These were lengths of tempered steel that had been ground to final shape but the blade had been given only a cursory sharpening, roughly suitable for minor work, but not the working edge a sailor depended upon.

Luckily for the midshipmen (and the ultimate purchaser of the blade), the blanks were stored so that they were "floating" in the plane of two-space, next to the Keel. The influence of Flatland worked to "draw" the edges into mono-molecular sharpness without affecting the temper of the steel. The blanks were differentially tempered with a very hard edge to hold that sharpness, and a much softer temper for the blade body, making for a knife or sword that was sharp, able to withstand shock and hard use, and still remain serviceable. Brother Theo had purchased the blade blanks on Nordheim, and they had been waiting in the hold, changing and becoming more valuable and more deadly with each passing day.

With the Ship's upcoming port call in Lenoria, Brother Theo was taking the opportunity to have the midshipmen (as well as any unoccupied hands available) add hilts, handles, and pommels. Thus turning these deadly and utilitarian knives into works of art. Highly useable art, mind you, but art nonetheless!

Hilts had been purchased at Nordheim as well. They were rough bronze castings in several designs that had to be cleaned, fitted, and polished. The handles were of either Osgil zebra wood or Nordheim satin wood, and lovingly hand-carved. Pommels of one of five semi-precious stones were added last, from Arakis desert pearls to, most expensive of all, real pre-collapse cat's-eye marbles from Earth. For safe handling of the blades, they were inserted into an ironwood holder and clamped with leather straps so they could be held safely as the middies and crew worked on them. In a separate group, other crew members were cutting, tooling, and sewing sheaths from four different varieties of Ambergris saurianoid hides.

Never being one to waste time, Theo was using this opportunity to expound upon Lenoria and its history and culture.

"Lenoria..." he began as he inspected the hilt of a knife he had just been handed. "Mr. Jubal, what have I told you about ensuring that the wrappings are snug? Think of having the hilt slide in your grip when you need it the most, and have pity on the poor soul who would buy such shoddy work! Even worse, think about how little money the Ship would receive for such slipshod craftsmanship!" Jubal responded with a grin and proceeded to repair the offending item.

Brother Theo started again. "Lenoria is one of Westerness' earliest colonies," he told the middies, "and it is now quite well developed. Some would say that it is even more beautiful than Westerness, the child outshining its parent. Its beautiful architecture, epic landscapes, strange cultures, and unusual animals make it one of the favorite stopovers for two-space Ships traveling west from Old Earth or from Westerness. The magnificent statue of the Goddess of Flight is a much-celebrated favorite among sailors. It makes Earth's Statue of Liberty pale by comparison, yet even it is dwarfed by the scale and complexity of Lenoria's Four Liberties. As the poet wrote:

 
"My soul, there stands a country
Far beyond the stars,
Where stands a winged sentry
All skillful in the wars."
 

The thought of shore leave on this legendary planet made the middies' young eyes glow with excitement as their teacher continued.

"Many of Westerness' thousands of colony planets have names and themes based on the classic science fiction that has informed and inspired our civilization. There must be a dozen desert planets named Dune or Arakis. (None of them, incidentally, has managed to give us a really decent sand worm or any useful 'Spice.' But you have to give them credit for diligently and persistently ingesting every known substance on each of these worlds in their search for a Spice.) Westerness has made Tolkien's work the theme for its architecture and much of its culture, with a lot of Victorian England mixed in for good measure. In the same way, Lenoria took its theme from some work done by Tom Kidd, an illustrator and writer in the classic era of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries."

He could see the young midshipmen begin to squirm as he commenced to wax eloquent on ancient history, and he knew that he should probably get to the point. "Among our retro-culture planets Lenoria is rather unique in its heavy development of airships to travel between its rugged plateaus. The huge, beautiful, lighter-than-air ships that grace the skies of Lenoria are something you will never forget. And, yes," he added with a sigh, "the nightlife of its portside facilities is as wild and diverse as anything you will find across the galaxy.

"Mr. Hayl," he admonished, "you are building a tool and a work of art for someone to cherish, not something that gets thrown into a box and ignored! Have pride in your work there!" Brother Theo's monkey eeked imperatively and glared at the offending middie as well. The midshipmen could never decide if Theo's monkey was mocking the monk or just mirroring him, but either way the little creature's antics were a constant source of amusement to them.

Melville wandered off, randomly looking at the fixtures of his Ship. Today's meals were being served on the upperside, and the young captain was about to move to the lowerside quarterdeck in order to escape the effluvia arising from Kaleb Jones' latest offense upon nature.

As Melville walked away from the mess line he heard one sailor complain, "I been watchin' ya! This stuff's been stewin' in its fat fer days now!" Indeed, Jones' bubbling cauldrons never ceased their labors, filled with unidentified entities constantly struggling to the surface as if to scream, only to be pulled down by other damned souls before they could speak.

"Aye!" replied Jones happily, shoving his pistol barrel in the boiling pot and stirring it. "'Ats wat they calls a slow cooker. Ya know I was never one fer slavin' over the stove. There's just one of me, ya know? So I needs to fix food that just gets on with itself. Right toothsome it is!"

"But... the fat..." protested the hapless sailor.

"Do I try to tell ya 'ow to sail this here boat? Don' even try to argue 'bout cookin' with an official grad-yew-ate of the Royal Caterin' Corps! The flavor's in the fat, ya know? Bet you didn't know that! An' a bit o' cookin' sherry... you can never 'ave too much cookin' sherry or bitterash..."

 

The next day started oddly. Kaleb Jones apparently managed a foul-up of unusual magnitude: the morning meal actually tasted good! A bit salty, perhaps, and a bit chewy, but wonderful in comparison to the normal Dwarrowdelf pottage the crew had almost become accustomed to.

Jones was in an apoplectic fury at the miscreants who had replaced his bitterash root with pepper and his ground rockthorn powder with salt! Not to mention the fact that Lt. Broadax seemed to have taken issue with the tampering with her breakfast! After a discussion with Jones involving much fondling of her ax on her part, and steady blanching of the skin on his part, Jones had gone into a flurry of checking for the adulteration of any of his other supplies.

Lt. Broadax then tried to put it out of her mind in the best way possible: by helping her marines train to be all they could be! Not that they saw it that way, of course.

 

Broadax slammed a hapless marine to the deck and looked in disgust at his unconscious body. "Corporal!" she growled out to Kobbsven. "Dock that marine a day's pay fer nappin' on the job!"

"My gawd," Dwakins mumbled from the sidelines, "she's tryin' ta kill us!"

Kobbsven nodded mournfully, his droopy, scraggly, handlebar mustache looking even more pathetic than usual. "Ja, yew betcha. I tink maybe she tinks she's workin' off her frustrations wit' a liddle hand-ta-hand training. Only ting is, I wants ta keep my hands! An' all my udder parts too!"

Broadax rumbled from within her toxic cloud of smoke which seemed to keep wreathing her short form no matter how hard the constant breeze kept blowing it downward. "Kobbsven! Ye overgrown ox! I heerd dat! Git yer butt out here. Yer the next 'un."

"Damn it, Dwakins, see whut ya made me do!" he moaned.

"Yer all veal!" snarled Broadax to her marines. "Ye know wat veal is, boys? It's food, kept inna box so's its muscles decompose an' fill with fatty tissues while its brain grows weak. Yer all veal, so come to momma an' I will set ye free frum yer leetle boxes!"

Kobbsven moved slowly toward the center of the smoke cloud. Very, very slowly. She might be a third of his height but she was faster than greased lightning and had one hell of a mad on.

He slid forward and then feinted with his left hand as he shifted back. At least that's what he thought he was doing as he felt an iron fist grab his groin and flip him up as her other hand grabbed his chest. He saw her head underneath him (how in hell did he get up here?) and as he swung at her with his fist he suddenly felt the deck slam him in the back as her foot planted itself against his throat.

"Blast it, Kobbsven!" he heard her growl above him. "Lookee wat ye did, ye doorknob! Ye broke my ceegar! Dammit, all yer doin' is makin' me mad! Why in hell can't ye sorry excuses fer marines do like yer supposed ta an' hit me! Not a pore defenseless li'l ceegar that ain't never hurt nobuddy!"

Kobbsven coughed, and spoke to the center of the three clouds swirling over him. "Uhh, no excuse, ma'am?" he ventured trying to focus on where he thought she was.

"Damned right! No excuse! Now git!" she said. "Dwakins! Yer next! Remember, boys, 'pain is jist weakness leavin' the body!'"

"I didn't know I vas dis weak," mumbled Kobbsven as he crawled away.

 

Melville looked over at Fielder as they stood together at the upper quarterdeck rail. "I see our Lt. Broadax is returning to her normal, congenial self. I guess our morning repast might have had something to do with her decision to change the training schedule?"

He cocked an inquisitive eye at his first officer, who returned a sheepish grin.

"I admit I heard that she was a tad perturbed after breakfast, Captain, but the reality does seem a bit, ummm, extreme! Brother Theo mentioned that some of the midshipmen were a bit excited this morning before breakfast, but we decided that further inquiry might not be a good idea. And after seeing her training regimen I am quite certain it's not necessary to pursue that inquiry any further. I'm not sure the middies would survive a training session that intense!"

Melville chuckled as his monkey eeped in cheerful agreement on his shoulder. "Midshipmen do enjoy their pranks, don't they?" he responded, "but I really think they ought to find something to keep them out of sight for a while, don't you?"

"Brother Theo and I agreed that there were some tasks that needed to be done that should keep them well away from our resident ogre. It is good for my soul to see so many industrious young men volunteer so eagerly. I think they were truly inspired by our marine lieutenant's current vigor! Hopefully she will cool off after some liberty in Lenoria tomorrow." Fielder gave one of his patented sardonic smiles and continued. "I think I had better suggest that the galley be off-limits for their hijinks, as I am not sure Jones would survive his next food faux pas. As a matter of fact, even our Guldur crew members are out of sorts."

"The Guldur?"

"Yes, sir. It seems that Hans has had a few of them ask why the food got so bad again. He said they weren't really unhappy, just curious as they had gotten to like having food with some flavor!"

"Damn!" said the captain. "I was looking forward to finding a replacement for Jones. I didn't realize that a sizable portion of the crew actually enjoyed his cooking. How do the Stolsh feel about it?" asked the captain. It was easy to forget about their handful of doleful, semi-aquatic Stolsh crewman.

"Who can tell? They're always so glooomy about everything." The first officer winced as he watched another marine bounce out of the cloud of smoke and land on the deck. "Damned good thing those boys have been taught how to fall, or Lady Elphinstone and Mrs. Vodi would be even busier than they're going to be."

"I don't think Lt. Broadax would be so incautious as to deprive the Ship of the services of any of her marines." Another marine bounced out to lie groaning on the deck before crawling to the side. "At least I hope not," Melville murmured as his monkey uttered a worried "Eep!"

 

The approach to Lenoria's Pier was normal. The Fang and the Pier made their respective cannon salutes, and as the Ship came into the dock, the anticipation began to peak.

Melville had been especially glum as he and his crew ate their meal that morning. His two bodyguards, Ulrich and Grenoble, were standing at the rail with him as they picked at their breakfast.

"It really is a good thing that we're coming into port," confided Melville to his two companions. "The Ship's stores are completely out of catsup and mustard. So that's Flavor Hider Mark I and Mark II out of action. All I had left was my personal bottle of hot sauce, and I used the last of that two days ago. With Flavor Hider Mark III out, I think I might starve. But, if you don't mind my asking, I notice that you've both got a bit of hot sauce left, and um, I wouldn't ordinarily ask, but since we're almost at port I wonder if one of you could share?"

The deranged little coxswain and the hereditary Sylvan bodyguard looked at each other and nodded. For once they found something they could agree on.

"Captain," began Grenoble, "We would take a bullet for thee—"

"—But cha ain't gittink none o' our damned hot saucek!" said Ulrich.

"In a word: aye," said Grenoble.

"Damn straighkt!" concluded Ulrich.

"I'm Spike! I taste like chicken!" added his parrotlet.

 

Elsewhere aboard the Fang, Corporal Kobbsven was holding forth to the marines on a subject near and dear to his heart: food! "I knew dat Jones vas trubble as soon as I laid eyes in 'im. Neffer trust a skinny cook, boys! Ja, yew betcha! I mean if he won't even eat his own food... Yew need a gal with meat on her bones, like our plump old Roxy, for really good cooking! So I figgers as soon as we gets off da Ship, we can git to da Danske Heart Rest'rant, were dey got's lutefisk dat'll stick ta yer ribs. Ja, an' potatoes an' dose liddle green peas, and some lefse. Now dat's da food o' the gods, it is! I'm tellin' ya boys, dat's better an' sex it is!"

Gunny Von Rito's disgusted response to this was, "If that's better than sex, let me tell you, you're not doing it right!"

Dwakins piped up, "Hey, Corporal, wut's that lutefisk stuff yer talkin' about? Some sorta food? Somethin' edible?" Dwakins looked pathetically eager at the thought of food not prepared by Kaleb Jones.

The gunny started laughing, and responded, "Dwakins, ya' idjit. Lutefisk is some dead, dried fish the old Vikings used to get and keep in lye. For some strange reason, certain people," and he shook his head at Kobbsven who was lost in a daydream of gustatory delights, "seem to think it's still edible. Come to think of it," he continued after a moment's thought, "compared to what we've been eating, this overgrown ox might be right!"

 

All the Fang's hopes and prayers were dashed by the appearance of a dainty, smartly dressed lieutenant who appeared at the gangplank as soon as the Ship was moored. Luckily for his safety, he delivered his envelope to the captain and departed before anyone knew its content.

"Restricted to the Pier and base?!" Fielder stormed. "Do they think we're a pariah Ship?" His monkey eeked plaintively, clearly in sympathy with its person.

The conversation in the wardroom with Captain Melville was not a pleasant one, for anyone involved. Apparently the long arm of the Admiralty had managed to reach out to Lenoria in the form of a fast mail Ship that had gone out before them from Earth. The resultant orders sat on the table in front of Melville.

"I don't think I would go quite that far, Daniel," Melville observed thoughtfully. "We are permitted access to the Pier and the Navy base on Lenoria. It's just that, according to the Admiralty, 'the skills and person of the sloop Fang are required urgently at your future ports of call. In the interest of speeding your departure, you are directed to restrict liberty to expedite your departure to these future ports of call...' And Lenoria's port admiral was quite, umm, direct in his interpretation, which also precludes us from taking anyone into the crew, or leaving anyone ashore. So I'd say we weren't being treated as a pariah... More a source of infection!"

Brother Theo was aghast. "Sir, we are prohibited from taking on new crew members? But what about Kaleb Jones? A replacement, or assistant or something?"

"Jones." Melville inhaled and exhaled slowly, shaking his head as he tried to take a sip of the sherry in front of him, which seemed to have evaporated from his wineglass. He turned to glare at his unrepentant monkey, who continued to clean the fur around its mouth.

"It appears we are, in fact, stuck with him. On the other hand, Brother Theo, as our purser, I think it best you deal with the victuallers for the foodstuffs and not Jones. The least we can do is make it more difficult for him to inflict his culinary masterpieces on us!"

"Don' worry, I got's faith in da boy," came a growl from Lt. Broadax, seconded by an "Eek" from her monkey and punctuated by dual clouds of smoke.

Fielder muttered, "Your 'boy' is a demon right out of Dante's Inferno!

 
"Now see the sharp-tailed beast
that mounts the brink...
Behold the beast
that makes the whole world stink."
 

Melville shook his head and continued, "Lt. Fielder, arrange for liberty parties, and make sure they know they are limited to the base and Pier only. Which means we need to assign someone to supervise the shore patrol. Someone sharp, wise to the ways of the sailor, and who is experienced enough to keep them relatively safe. Definitely not a midshipman!"

All eyes swung involuntarily to Mr. Hans, who sputtered into his drink. "Aw, bugrit! Captain, we had a few plans, I mean..." and he trailed off. He looked at his inamorata, who just shrugged and proceeded to try and prove that her cigars should be declared toxic weapons based upon effect. They were both professionals, and could be counted on to deal with the situation appropriately.

"Aye, sir," Hans replied disconsolately.

Melville ignored the byplay as he left the wardroom muttering, "Plans?" Remembering Broadax's words about her shopping excursion on Earth, he shuddered and resolved not to ask. After all, they were liable to answer!

 

The port visit was just barely long enough for the Ship's company to take care of urgent business. Cargo was bought and sold through port factors at a sufficient profit to keep Brother Theo happy. Asquith was able to sell one copy of his book and the rights for reproduction and distribution of said book to a local publisher. Fresh water was onloaded to keep the barrels full before their next voyage out to the stars. The sailors and marines looked longingly at the world outside the base fence, but they had to be content with visiting every restaurant and store on the base and Pier, and stuffing themselves with food that everyone agreed was downright delicious compared to their repasts of late.

This stop also gave the crew members a chance to purchase books, magazines, paper, pencils, art materials, and supplies for various projects. Most importantly they were able to stock up on "gedunk" and "pogey bait"—old terms from ancient prehistory, translated from a long-forgotten language, which apparently meant "food to be taken aboard and hidden until needed for sanity."

The Ship's officers were relatively understanding, permitting most of the foodstuffs to come aboard without objection. Except for Kobbsven's lutefisk. After their experiences with Jones' abominations, everyone was understandably suspicious of any unfamiliar food, and the lutefisk required intervention from Lady Elphinstone to explain that it was indeed a foodstuff and was edible by normal human beings. Seeing as it was Kobbsven bringing it aboard, Fielder was inclined to wonder at the "normal" part of that statement. Didn't the man have a nose?!

 

Among the duties required of the officers of any visiting Ship was the thankless task of "Officer of the Guard." To ease the work of the port authorities, the various Ships at the Pier were required to supply a lieutenant or warrant officer for a full 24-hour detail. This duty included inspecting the various checkpoints, gates, fortifications and cannons which protected the Pier; supervising the guards at the entrances of the base to ensure that prostitutes and thieves were kept in check; and visiting the groundside bars within the confines of the base, as well as supervising the shore patrol that helped with these tasks.

While he was the Officer of the Guard, Hans was called to respond to a report of a disturbance at the "Club." The "disturbance" turned out to be almost seven feet tall and weighed at least three-hundred pounds.

Normally, the arrival of the shore patrol and the Officer of the Guard had a quelling effect on the Club. Every man and woman there knew that they hadn't done anything, but in the face of authority they tended to search their consciences for any minor offense the Navy might not be willing to overlook.

In this case, though, the smashed tables, groups of moaning sailors, and the overwhelming odor of that most terrible of sins—spilled beer—persuaded most of the attendees that they weren't on the menu for the night and they proceeded to hunker down and watch the show.

Hans drew a beer from the bar and sat down looking at the man-mountain who stood before him. His shore patrol party took their cue from the old warrant and stood back with considerable trepidation.

"Come on, old man," the disturbance yelled. "I can take you, your whole damned shore patrol, and anybody else 'at wants ta help!"

Having been on both sides of such altercations in the past, Hans was more amused than anything else. The trick was to get the idiot out of there and into the lockup where he could sleep it off before they shipped him back to his Ship. Hopefully without getting his shore patrol hurt, or, well, even himself. Much as old Hans hated to admit it, these little dances were getting a bit tough on the bones. Especially considering the stress his sweety had been putting on them in recent months! He broke off his internal monologue as he took a deep pull of his beer.

"No problem. Jist start swingin'," Hans said, sipping at his beer. "I'll catch up."

The huge sailor gaped at him, a bit confused by Hans' response. The damned shore patrol was supposed to mix it up, not stand back and watch that old man, even if he did look more like a mobile chunk of oak, rawhide, and whipcord than a person.

"Awww, come on. Wouldn't you like to try to paint just one wall with me? I ain't never seen no bosun or warrant as could take me!"

"Weelll, maybe we can have a little fun," said Hans. "But ya must've already worked up a hell of a thirst, so let's have a beer or two first."

The huge, drunken sailor could see nothing wrong with that suggestion, so he grabbed a pitcher of beer off the nearest table that was still standing, and drank it down in one long chug.

"Damn!" said Hans. "If you can fight like you can drink, we've got our work cut out for us. Bet ya a dollar ya can't do that again."

"Ha! You lose old man," replied the sailor, as he grabbed another pitcher and chugged it down.

"Hot damn!" said Hans in wide-eyed wonder as he tossed a silver dollar on the table. "I guess I lose, but it was worth the price for the show. I do like a man who enjoys 'is beer. The problem is, ya look like a feller who's smart and strong. If we put ya in the brig, I'm bettin' you'd jist break right out again."

"Damned right!" said the sailor, who was now swaying like a tall pine in a strong wind.

"Jist as I thought," said Hans, looking up from his beer with a nod. "I'll bet ye're also an escape artist—a regular Houdini. Between yer brains an' yer brawn, there can't be much that'd hold ya."

The giant sailor nodded and burped, then he decided this called for another beer, and he began to drain another pitcher.

"Dammit," Hans continued, "if I had some chains, you could show us how strong ya really are. But all I've got is this puny set of handcuffs. I'd be willin' ta wager another dollar, jist ta see ya break out of 'em. Wadda ya think? Can ya do it?"

"Yeah, sure!" said the sailor. "As long as you don't mind your jewelry gettin' busted up. See these scars on my wrists? They're proof that I've busted out of every set of handcuffs anyone ever tried to put on me!"

Now Hans was beginning to get seriously concerned. "Okay, then, 'at raises the stakes. Can ya do it with the cuffs behind ya?"

"Ha! You betcha!"

"Okay! Finish yer beer an' turn around. This is somethin' I gotta see!"

Once in the cuffs, the huge sailor puffed, pulled and jerked for several minutes. "Damn! These are really strong. I can't get out of 'em," he growled.

"Are ya sure?" Hans asked.

The sailor tried again, with muscles standing out in an amazing display of human anatomy. "Nope," he gasped. "I can't do it."

"Be sure. I'm rootin' fer ya. Come on, give it one more try." Hans took another pull of his beer as he watched the huge sailor with interest. For a minute there he thought the ox might break out of them!

"No, damnit!" he panted, dropping to his knees in exhaustion, "I can't!"

"In that case," said Hans, picking up the silver dollar on the table, "yer under arrest."

 

The shore patrol moved in to take custody of the baffled and exhausted sailor, while Hans reflected that old age and treachery would always win over youth and energy!

Of course, a set of high quality Dwarrowdelf "bracelets" helped. Old Hans hummed happily to himself as he dwelt upon some of the other, more pleasant, and considerably more kinky applications that these particular "bracelets" had seen recently.

Only two more hours ta go before my duty's up, thought Hans as he took a long, satisfying drink of his beer. An' my li'l angel's waitin' fer me in her room at the bachelor officer quarters. Gotta be sure ta get my cuffs back from this dummy after they git him in a cell an' 'e passes out. Heh! If they worked on my li'l sugar plum, there's no way that big oaf coulda busted 'em!

 

The Fang was ready to sail, but her first officer was in a bit of a dither. The stores had been loaded, the sailors and marines had brought aboard their gedunk, pogey bait, and survival rations for the trip, along with paper and pencils for their journals and material for their projects, art and craftwork. Everything was ready for their departure—except Broadax! Where in hell was she?

Melville came up to his first officer as he paced near the upper quarterdeck at the gangplank. "Are we prepared to get underway, Daniel?"

Fielder turned to him and responded, "Well, sir, all the pre-underway checklists are done and complete, I've made a tour of all the berthing spaces, all the miscellaneous items the sailors and marines brought aboard are stowed, and the catered lunch we ordered for today is sitting in the mess. We even got our last crewman out of the brig. Seems Ranger Valandil was picked up for public urination."

"Huh!" said Melville.

"Like you said, sir, it's always the quiet ones. So we're prepared to depart, except for one minor detail. Lt. Broadax is missing."

"Broadax?" Melville replied in surprise. "Any messages from her?"

"One message from her via Corporal Petrico. She said she'd be aboard before we got underway and she had a surprise for us."

"A surprise, eh? In that case we should know soon, because unless my eyes deceive me I see a smoke cloud in a gingham dress coming down the Pier."

Fielder turned and saw what appeared to be a brightly covered fireplug emitting copious amounts of smoke, followed by a porter carrying boxes and bales of stuff behind her. He blinked once or twice and said, "Do you know, Captain, I do believe I have now seen everything. Lt. Broadax in a gingham dress... And what is that porter carrying for her?" he wondered aloud. His monkey chirped confusedly as well.

Lt. Broadax reached the bottom of the gangway and snarled at the dapper lieutenant and his guards, who had been posted there by the port authority to enforce the Fang's pariah status and ensure that they didn't take anyone into the crew, or leave anyone ashore. The conversation was... intense. Broadax communicated graphically, biographically, and autobiographically what she thought about her fellow lieutenant, in a manner that only a former senior NCO can truly master, with she and her monkey both blowing great clouds of toxic smoke in the process. The unfortunate lieutenant's squad of guards were clearly enjoying the situation, and the captain and crew of the Fang listened in intently from the rail. Her victim quickly desired nothing more than to get Broadax out of his hair and onto her Ship. Then she mounted the gangway with her porter following behind.

"Hoo-yah!" she said with a salute. "I'm reportin' aboard, sir!" Somewhere behind her beard it looked like she had a sly smirk on her face as she leaned forward and whispered, "An' I gots a serprise fer ye! But I thinks it better waits 'til we's underway."

As Melville looked down at her in confusion, he felt his monkey grab his ear and pull gently up, until he was looking at her porter. Or what appeared to be her porter at first glance, until he recognized the ugly, old, one-eyed face mangling an unlit cigar, with a little monkey head peeping out of the collar of her longshoreman's smock. It was Roxy, their old cook! How in the hell did Broadax find her? How did she get here? In any case, the staged last-minute arrival to get past the guard on the Pier explained a few things, the rest could wait until they cleared port.

Melville said quietly, "Aye, I think you have a point here, Lieutenant." He continued loudly, "Lt. Fielder, let's get the Fang underway and where she belongs, a long way from here."

"Aye, sir!"

Melville looked at Broadax again. So, he thought, reaming out that poor lieutenant in public was just a smoke screen (literally and figuratively!) to get Roxy aboard. She has many roles, our Broadax. She is our Achilles, our berserker, our Amazon. She is a marine, a warrior, a hard-boiled leader. But perhaps her most remarkable persona is just being Broadax, on liberty, stuffing that body into a dress and letting her and Hans roam the streets of some poor, innocent, unsuspecting planet!

 

Lenoria was now falling behind them and it was explanation time. And the explanation was interestingly devious. Roxy had been greatly distressed at being pulled off the Fang and assigned to shore duty. So she called in a lifetime of favors and connections in order to pull a trade with the cook of the mail packet Ship scheduled for Lenoria. And the wiley old cook was quite happy to jump Ship as soon as the Fang hit port. The biggest problem had been figuring out how to get aboard at the last minute so she couldn't be taken off again. Roxy and Lt. Broadax had worked up a scam so that their beloved cook could get aboard as a porter.

"See Cap'n," Broadax crowed proudly as she stood upon the upper quarterdeck with Melville and Fielder, watching Lenoria's Pier sink into the east, "it's actually pretty easy oncet I set my mind to it. I figgered if'n that pansy Ell Tee an' 'is guards wus a watchin' me, they wouldn't notice nobuddy wit' me. An' jist ta make sure, I got meself all dolled up right purty so's he couldn't mistake me."

She grinned up at him and concluded, "So since she follered me home, can I keep 'er?"

Roxy's chest went up and down accompanied by a slight wheezing, which was as close as she ever came to laughing.

Melville smiled from ear to ear and the rest of the quarterdeck crew cheered themselves hoarse. "Well," he replied, "since you put it that way, I guess so." He frowned then and added, "You realize we probably need to change the mess around, don't you. Roxy is senior cook..."

"Amen," muttered Fielder. "Now we can dump Jones on a particularly pestilent, flea-bitten world I know of that's on our route. I have a long-standing grudge against the place."

Broadax ignored Fielder and said, "I bin thinkin' on 'at, Cap'n. I know ye humans is all sorter weak in da jaws an' don't appreciate the finer cookin' 'at Jones put out fer us. But ye know though, the Guldur likes Jones' cookin' too. Mebbe we can work out a deal where's we gots two chow lines. 'Specially as a sort of a favor since I broughts Roxy back ta us, ye know?"

Melville smiled in relief. "Best idea I've heard for a while, Lieutenant. I'll do it on one condition."

"Whuts 'at?" Broadax replied suspiciously.

"Have Jones set up downwind!" Melville replied.

 

That night, as the Fang and her crew sailed happily off into the endless twilight horizon of two-space, a happy wardroom invited their captain to eat with them. Everyone dined with gusto and great satisfaction as Roxy served up heaping platters of her best chow, while Broadax devoured a reeking plate of mysterious gristle that had been prepared by Kaleb Jones.

Dinner was followed by Mrs. Vodi's famous "Death-by-Chocolate" cake. Upon finishing his dessert old Hans leaned back contentedly and—with a none-too-subtle leer and a wink at Broadax—said, "Ahhh. I kin only think o' one better way to die!" A sentiment to which all and sundry were willing to drink heartily.

After dessert the loyal toast was called for by the junior officer present. "Gentlefolk, the Queen!" squeaked tiny Midshipman Aquinar.

"The Queen!" chorused the response.

"Gentlefolk, fill your glasses for another toast," cried Lt. Fielder. "Here's to Roxy!" he said, after all the glasses were full, holding his own glass high. "The best damned cook in two-space! She is now officially AWOL and on the lam from the Navy, but she will never leave our hearts and we'll protect her to our deaths!"

This brought a chorus of agreement and everyone drank deeply from their glasses.

Then Broadax added, "An' 'ere's ta Kaleb Jones, who cooks a damned good meal fer those wat can handle it, an' who made ya appreciate yer Roxy!"

That brought an even louder cheer of agreement as they all emptied their glasses.

"You know," said Melville with a grin, "it was a close call as to whether Jones would have met a violent end. It's happened before, as in the tragic case of Boomer Johnson, about whom an ode was written long, long ago."

This brought smiles all around. "Can ya give us the poem, Cap'n?" asked old Hans.

"Aye, if you'd like," he replied.

The mess roared their approval, and Melville began:

 
"Now Mr. Boomer Johnson
was a gettin' old in spots,
And you don't expect a bad man
to go wrastlin' pans and pots;
But he'd done his share of killin'
and his draw was gettin' slow,
So he quits a-punchin' cattle
and he takes to punchin' dough.
 
"Our foreman up and hires him,
figurin' age had rode him tame,
But a snake don't get no sweeter
just by changin' of its name.
Well, Old Boomer knowed his business—
he could cook to make you smile,
But say, he wrangled fodder
in a most peculiar style."
 

"Hey, I don't think this poem is gonna work, Cap'n," interjected Hans in the pause between stanzas. "This feller's cookin' was good!"

Melville just smiled and continued:

 
"He never used no matches—
left em layin' on the shelf,
Just some kerosene and cussin'
and the kindlin' lit itself.
And, pardner, I'm allowin'
it would give a man a jolt
To see him stir frijoles
with the barrel of his Colt."
 

"Ha!" laughed Broadax, "tha's my boy allright!"

 
"Now killin' folks and cookin'
ain't so awful far apart,
That musta been why Boomer
kept a-practicin' his art;
With the front sight of his pistol
he would cut a pie-lid slick,
And he'd crimp her with the muzzle
for to make the edges stick."
 

"Yeah, killing and cooking definitely aren't too far apart!" interjected Westminster. "Jones pert near did both at once!"

 
"He built his doughnuts solid,
and it sure would curl your hair
To see him plug a doughnut
as he tossed it in the air.
He bored the holes plum center
every time his pistol spoke,
Till the can was full of doughnuts
and the shack was full of smoke.
 
"We-all was gettin' jumpy,
but he couldn't understand
Why his shootin' made us nervous
when his cookin' was so grand.
He kept right on performin',
and it weren't no big surprise
When he took to markin' tombstones
on the covers of his pies."
 

"Amen!" said Brother Theo, who had lost a fair amount of weight over the past few weeks. "Jones' pies almost were my tombstone!"

 
"They didn't taste no better
and they didn't taste no worse,
But a-settin' at the table
was like ridin' in a hearse;
You didn't do no talkin'
and you took just what you got,
So we et till we was foundered
just to keep from gettin' shot.
 
"When at breakfast one bright mornin',
I was feelin' kind of low,
Old Boomer passed the doughnuts
and I up and tells him 'No,
All I takes this trip is coffee,
for my stomach is a wreck.'
I could see the itch for killin'
swell the wattle on his neck."
 

"At least he was an honest man who did his killing with a gun!" laughed Fielder.

 
"Scorn his grub? He strings some doughnuts
on the muzzle of his gun,
And he shoves her in my gizzard
and he says, 'You're takin' one!'
He was set to start a graveyard,
but for once he was mistook;
Me not wantin' any doughnuts,
I just up and salts the cook."
 

"Ha! Tha's the spirit!" cried Hans. "Death to the cook, sez I!"

 
"Did they fire him? Listen, pardner,
there was nothin' left to fire,
Just a row of smilin' faces
and another cook to hire.
If he joined some other outfit
and is cookin', what I mean,
It's where they ain't no matches
and they don't need kerosene!"
 

The mess exploded in applause and Melville bowed and said, "So you see, gentlemen, Kaleb Jones could have met a worse fate, and as captain of this good Ship, I'm just glad we avoided bloodshed! But now we can say that we've come through Guldur attacks and attacks of Dwarrowdelf chow. And as for me, I think I'd rather face the Guldur any day!"

This brought a roar of agreement as Melville concluded, "We have proven that the Fang and her crew can take anything the galaxy has to throw at us! So, gentlefolk, I give you one last toast: God bless the good Ship Fang and all those who fare upon her! Long may she sail the seas of two-space!"

The wardroom's roar of agreement shook the walls. "To Fang!" they chorused.

 

Fang went forth from the Pier at Lenoria, but she left behind a piece of herself, and a piece of Biter and Gnasher... and a little bit of Kestrel. And their tale spread to every Ship that came to Lenoria, and every Ship carried it forth.

<<Remember, remember,>> whispered unspoken words that were heard across thousands of Ships and Piers in the months to come. <<Remember Kestrel. Remember a dark tide of fear and hate. Remember war, red war is coming! And remember the love that quenches hate and fear as water quenches fire. Remember.>>

And across every Pier and every Ship, and within the souls of every living creature that stepped upon their planks, at a conscious and unconscious level, they knew and remembered...

 

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