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CHAPTER THE 7TH
Nordheim: "The North Countree is a Hard Countree"

 
Oh, the North Countree is a hard countree
That mothers a bloody brood;
And its icy arms hold hidden charms
For the greedy, the sinful and lewd.
And strong men rust, from the gold and the lust
That sears the Northland soul.

"The Ballad of Yukon Jake"
Edward E. Paramore, Jr.

 

Asquith woke up the next morning with two new things in his world.

First was a determination to adapt to this strange world. He had dreamt of guns that would not fire and a puppy that looked up at him with frightened eyes. And he knew what that meant.

The second was his monkey. He had a monkey. It was a tiny, dappled, fawn-colored thing at first, snuggled next to his head in bed, looking up at him with sleepy eyes.

The two events blended together in his mind. The

monkey meant that he had been accepted by this world, and he was determined to accept it in return. Whatever that led to, whatever it meant, he was willing to give it a try.

The little earthling called for paper and pencil, and he began to write. During the long days of recovery and convalescence Asquith interviewed his fellow patients and he took careful notes as his monkey watched attentively from his shoulder.

 

The monkeys were on the captain's mind as well.

"It's the most extraordinary phenomenon," said Brother Theo, as he sat over a glass of wine at the captain's table. "The monkeys can die. We know that. We dissected one! And if the monkey dies and its human lives, then another baby monkey appears within the next few days, and, well, it appears that the new monkey has the exact same memories and personality as the one that died! Most commonly, though, the monkey dies with its human, and we bury them together. But what happens if the human dies, and the monkey doesn't?"

"Okay, I'll bite," said Melville, taking a sip of his wine as he reached up to scratch his monkey behind its ear. "What happens?"

"The monkey just... disappears! Nobody knows where they go, just as no man fathoms where they come from."

The monk held his hands up in a shrug of frustration and confusion, and looked over at the monkey on his shoulder, who promptly mirrored the gesture and said, "Eep?" innocently.

"Could they have been thrown into two-space, or maybe, I don't know, maybe they leapt into two-space in despair, or something?" asked the captain.

"No, Captain," replied Theo, shaking his head. "I observed it in our battles at Osgil and Ambergris, and that was my supposition. But there's no denying it. It's occurred too many times. I have too many examples. Nobody sees it happen, but they simply... go away. The host dies, and then they're just... not there anymore. There is no other explanation."

"Does the rest of the crew know about this?"

"Yes, Captain. There's no concealing it. And, frankly, everyone just takes it in stride. Two-space is a realm of mystery. They live with the inexplicable, like Alice's 'Red Queen' believing in the impossible twice a day. It's something we'll have to accept, I suppose. Maybe someday we'll figure it out."

"You rascals," said Melville, looking at his monkey. "You mysterious little rascals."

"Eep," agreed his monkey.

 

The flotilla of crippled Ships made their slow, uneventful journey across the vast dark blue expanse. Ordinarily they would pass through countless solar systems as they sailed the shoreless seas of two-space. Usually there would be glowing areas of orange, yellow, and red that meant they were traveled through suns. (Or over, or around, or beside them... whatever the relationship was between two-space and three-space.) They would have seen areas where the plane of two-space was cloud white, sea blue, grass green, dull red, gray, brown, and every other earth tone, and every combination thereof, as they sailed through planets.

But now they were traveling across the Grey Rift, sailing between the spiral arms, and there was nothing to see except an eternal sea, an endless horizon that constantly moved before them, and the unchanging stars and galactic lenses that hung above them. They were bearing north, galactic north, toward the legendary Dwarrowdelf world of Nordheim.

 

On the upper waist, every day except Sunday, Brother Theo Petreckski conducted classes for the middies. The Ship's boys and many of the crew also tried to make time for these sessions, hanging back on the fringes or sitting above the class on the mainmast yardarms as Brother Theo lectured the "young gentlemen." Today the captain was teaching and every available ear was listening.

Melville's primary goal was to prepare them for their visits to Nordheim and Earth. Since there was plenty of time, he began at the beginning.

His midshipmen sat cross-legged on the glowing white deck in their cropped blue jackets over white shirts and sailcloth pants, with Brother Theo sitting off to one side like a benign Buddha in his brown robe. A deck chair was brought out for the captain and he sat in front of the middies. Every soul had a monkey perched on his shoulder, and the monkeys gave the impression that they were also listening and understanding.

Melville looked at his middies with a touch of sadness. They were growing up. The ones who weren't dead.

Abdyl Faisal and tiny Garth Aquinar were the only two middies remaining from the Kestrel's original crew. Archer and Crater had been promoted from midshipman to lieutenant and were now commanding their own Ships. Kestrel's other middies were all dead.

Aquinar was still just ten Earth years old and small for his age, with a round face, and dark, wise eyes that seemed to look through you. He was too young to serve as a middie, but Captain Crosby of the Kestrel had brought the boy along as a favor to an old Shipmate. Part middie and part mascot, he had grown into an remarkably competent young man.

Faisal was tall for his thirteen years, dark and slender with a natural grace and elegance.

Ellis Palmer was huge for his twelve years, destined to be a giant. He had proven himself as a Ship's boy and had been promoted to midshipman shortly after they captured the Fang and lost their old Kestrel.

Anthony Hayl had joined them on Osgil. He was about the same age as Palmer but with significantly less experience aboard Ship. This was balanced by his experience in the civilian world and the preparation that his family had given him.

The final two middies, Hezikiah Jubal and Lao Tung, had proven themselves as able seamen and were promoted to middie after the capture of the Fang. These last two were next in line for promotion to lieutenant, if any promotions were ever to be given in the future. Which was doubtful, given the fact that the Fang and her crew were not in the good graces of the Admiralty.

"Lads," Melville began, looking out at the young faces of his midshipmen, and the other Ship's boys and sailors beyond them who also "happened" to be listening in. "In this strange realm that we call two-space, complex or advanced mechanisms can't exist. Our star kingdom depends on the crude technology of wooden ships, and the iron men who man her. We fight with cannon, sword, rifled musket, and bayonet. But can somebody tell me what the most important weapon in two-space is?"

There was a long pause, and then Aquinar answered, looking at his captain with eyes dark and deep as space, "Sir, the most important weapon is the human brain. 'All things are ready, if our minds be so.'"

"Aye," their captain replied, "well done. So who can tell me 'Steinbeck's Law'? Mr. Palmer?" he said, in response to the middie's raised hand.

"'This is the law,'" began Palmer in a deep rumble. "'The purpose of fighting is to win. There is no possible victory in defense. The sword is more important than the shield and skill is more important than either. The final weapon is the brain. All else is supplemental.'"

"Aye, well said," replied the captain. "Never forget, we made it into two-space without any outside help. Our minds were the weapons and the tools that got us here. Can you imagine what it must have been like when that great innovator and researcher, Kenny Muraray, created the first Pier, and saw it disappear up into nothing? Soon, Moss grew on the Keel and they went up and studied two-space."

He tried to communicate the awe and wonder of that first event to these young men, and to everyone else who listened. Their rapt attention made him think he was succeeding. Or maybe it was just their respect for the captain.

"Westerness was discovered by the men of Old Earth in the year 2210, over four-hundred years ago. That was almost a century after Earth's first, disastrous entry into Flatland, when they tried to take computers into two-space. The computers came back ruined, but they also came back with the Elder Kings' Gift: a devastating two-space virus that caused a total collapse of Earth's worldwide Info-Net. This resulted in what we call the Crash. But still the Pier was there, and those early pioneers went from the equivalent of a dugout canoe to the mighty frigates of today in just a few centuries."

Everyone around him nodded. This was an old tale, but one they enjoyed hearing again, and their captain gave it new twists and new credibility.

"So why did Westerness take over from Earth? Why did Earth step aside as leaders?"

There was a long, awkward pause, and then Tung answered. "Well, sir, the vast majority of human colonies came from Westerness, since we had lots of big, ancient Nimbrell forests to build the Ships and Keels. And Earth rebuilt their high-tech world, but that technology can't be exported across two-space. Earthlings all have nano-tech and bio-robotic implant stuff, and other technology that makes them live for centuries. But if any of that junk came into two-space, they'd be real dead, real fast. So, over the years they weren't willing to come out here and they just kind of lost their curiosity or excitement."

"Aye," said Melville. "High-tech can be a real trap. You can lose interest in two-space and become decayed and moribund, and you will always be vulnerable to another Crash. On major, star-faring worlds there's little need for technology beyond Victorian levels. So worlds like our Westerness, or Osgil (where we just came from), or Nordheim (where we are headed), simply don't bother with it."

His class all nodded. They understood what the captain was talking about. They also understood that the Guldur attacks were forcing Osgil and many other worlds to move toward machine guns, artillery, and other early twentieth century technology to protect themselves from invasion.

"So we've rejected technology," continued Melville, "and chosen to take another route. What is that route?"

Again there was an awkward pause, and finally Jubal answered, in a slow drawl, "Well, sur, maintainin' a two-space kingdom is what motivates us. Since high-tech can send yah off track, like Earth, we choose ta stay at a basic technology level. We call it retroculture: an intentional move backward in technology an' culture."

"Good!" said Melville. "In the Navy this is reinforced by our love of three major bodies of classic literature and history. Who can tell me what they are?"

Midshipman Hayl, deciding it was time for him to answer a question, raised his hand, and the captain nodded. "Sir, the major sources of literary inspiration for our civilization are: classic science fiction, the extensive biographies of great sailors such as Horatio Hornblower and Jack Aubrey, and (most importantly) Tolkien's Lord of the Rings."

"Aye," said Melville. "Quite right. Through these classic works of literature we are reaching back into our past to build the best present we can."

Then the young captain's voice grew low. He leaned forward and his eyes, his speech, his whole body communicated wonder and excitement. "It is a wild, crazy, wonderful and incredibly diverse galaxy out here, and we are privileged to see it. Most people never leave their home planet. The Ships of two-space are rare, and travel is too expensive for all but the very rich, or for settlers making once-in-a-lifetime trips. But you and I, Shipmates, we get to see this wonderful galaxy! And the most amazing thing that we found when we finally broke out into two-space was that Others were already here! Somewhere in the primordial past, an ancient, Ur civilization appears to have seeded much of the galaxy with genetically similar stock. Other races have been traveling out in this realm for millennia. We found fair elves who live high up in the vast trees of low-gravity worlds like Osgil, and doughty, stout-hearted dwarfs who mine deep into high-gravity worlds like Nordheim."

Melville added with a wry laugh, "There are even wolves, complete with goblin riders. (All of you have made an intimate acquaintance with them!) There are also orcs and ogres! And there are legends of silicon-based, troll-like life forms, and insectoid civilizations! Let's hope we don't have to fight them too!"

His middies grinned in response to their captain's jest, and he continued. "The crazy thing is, it's almost like Tolkien's writings were prophecy. Polite people talk in terms of 'Sylvan' and 'Dwarrowdelf' rather than elves and dwarfs. The Sylvan and Dwarrowdelf prefer it that way, and so do we because, quite frankly, we are all a bit awestruck and uncomfortable dealing with it. Our feelings toward Tolkien are almost religious. We treat this whole business as if it were the gift of some god, or like a gambler would refer to his luck."

Melville grinned to himself, realizing that he was giving a reiteration of one of his academy classes. Captain Ben James, one of his favorite instructors, was the first person to ever talk about these things, and it had stuck in his mind.

"Even the Sylvan and Dwarrowdelf themselves have embraced Tolkien as a kind of semi-prophecy. Tolkein always insisted that the power of his work was in its applicability, not its allegory. Now the application of his writing has achieved widespread cultural influence almost like the Bible. Just as the Greek culture and language was embraced by the conquering Romans, our culture and language have become the lingua franca for the elder races, and our literature, especially Tolkein, was key to that."

"And now we get to see Nordheim," interjected tiny Aquinar, his normally calm voice squeaking with excitement.

"Aye," boomed Lt. Broadax. She stood off to one side, leaning on her ax. Most of the group hadn't realized that she was listening. "Nordheim, where the Way of the Wind is a strange, wild way, carving her wonders out of snow-jeweled hills an' ice, amidst twisted emerald evergreens, an' granite spires flecked with sparkling quartz and mica. An' in the still o' the dawn ye will know the Splendor o' Silence. An' her mountains! Ah, her lush mountains filled with sweet veins o' gold, silver an' gems!"

"Aye, indeed!" replied Melville, looking at her with a fond smile. "But the real gems to be found on Nordheim are her people, the mighty Dwarrowdelf. And now we are about to make landfall on that legendary world. Most Dwarrowdelf worlds are concentrated up here in the galactic north, where the planets tend to have a greater density of heavy metals. Just as the Sylvans tend to cluster out toward the edges of the galaxy and the ends of the spiral arms, where there seem to be more of the light-gravity, low-density worlds that they love.

"And," said Melville, his face growing hard as he continued, "after Nordheim we are under orders to report to Earth. The people of Earth often seem rude when they talk about our culture. They call us 'primitives.' Sometimes they even call us 'Hokas.' Out in two-space, or on one of our worlds it's appropriate to challenge them to a duel in response to such an insult. Because, you see gentlemen, we are not Hokas! We are the Kingdom of Westerness! Our culture and values now rule one of the greatest empires in the galaxy. While their values and decaying culture sit festering and rotting on one lonely, sick old world."

There were growls of agreement, and then the captain made eye contact with each individual as he continued sternly. "But, on Earth, provided you get shore leave, you will be their guests and you must play by their rules. That means no duels and no acts of violence. If you cannot live by the rules of a world, then don't go there."

"Unless yer there ta kill the bastards!" added Broadax. "Then ya don't give a damn about their rules."

 

Several days later they were met by a half dozen Dwarrowdelf longships, well before they had come in sight of Nordheim's Pier.

"The Dwarrowdelf dislike low gravity," explained Brother Theo to his class of middies as they crowded the upperside rail to watch the approaching Ships, "which means that their 'longships' are, indeed, low and long, with only one sail on each of their three masts. With, of course, the obligatory row of heraldic shields lashed to the rail.

"The Dwarrowdelf are also appalling shots," he continued, "so they only have a few 12-pound cannons in the bow. Their preferred strategy is to blast you at close range, then ram and board you."

"Aye," drawled Josiah Westminster, who was leaning up against the railing beside them. "They ain't worth a damn in a gunfight, but with their big crews of ax-wielding maniacs, if they get a chance to board you, yer finished."

All eyes were on the approaching Dwarrowdelf Ships. On the upper quarterdeck, Melville commented to Fielder, "They probably can't figure what or who we are. We must look like three forlorn and misshapen Guldur cripples, limping in with our crude jury rigs and sparse display of sails."

"Aye, sir," replied his first officer dryly. "They're probably trying to decide whether to sink us or condemn us."

Melville looked back on the two Ships traveling behind them, and he felt a great surge of satisfaction in what they had accomplished. In a loud, clear voice he said,

 
"Beauty in desolation was her pride,
Her crowned array a glory that had been;
She faltered tow'rds us like a swan that died
But although ruined she was still a queen."
 

His crew growled in agreement. Pride. Beauty. Glory. Still a queen. Those were just the right words to communicate how they felt.

 

On the lowerside railing Cuthbert Asquith XVI stood beside Mrs. Vodi, Lady Elphinstone, and the other ambulatory patients, all looking at the Dwarrowdelf Ships coming in from their flank, and their sister Ships trailing behind them.

"I still don't get it," said Asquith as he looked out at the magnificent sight with his one good eye, while absentmindedly reaching up to pet his baby monkey.

"What don't you get?" asked Mrs. Vodi with a sigh.

"Well, as I understand it," replied Asquith, "Flatland, or two-space, allows you to traverse the universe from one place to another in a straight line. That is, if we consider the galaxy in three-space to be a solid lens, like a vast frisbee, then if we want to go from point A to point B we have to traverse along the arc of the galaxy. Flatland reduces the huge frisbee of the galaxy to a small, flat disc. Thus allowing us to travel from A to B in a short, straight line... Am I right?"

"Yes," replied Mrs. Vodi. "The key point is that Flatland seems to have everything much closer together, or maybe we can just move around in it faster. Either way the effect is the same. As if you took a big frisbee and compacted it into a dime, or something even smaller and flatter, and then hopped from one densely packed molecule to another."

"Okay," continued Asquith, "so this means that the Keel of your dimensionally ambivalent Ship interfaces with Flatland, allowing a three-dimensional object to move within the realm of two-dimensional space. Still right? And, apparently for a sense of balance, the Ship must actually be Siamese ships, joined together at the keel, transecting Flatland by having 3-D objects above and below. Okay?"

"Okay."

"But how does it work?!" said Asquith with sincere distress in his voice. "I really am trying to understand it all. Mind you, this is coming from someone who once readily accepted that a John Carter could be telepathically summoned to Mars."

"Don't ask me how the universe works!" replied Mrs. Vodi. "I'm just a lob-lolly girl. And, truth be told, I don't think anyone understands it. But for that matter, whoever really understood 'warp space' or 'hyperspace' in all those old science fiction books? The bottom line is, here we are. And right now the key question is, 'How will the Dwarrowdelf receive us?'"

"Eep!" agreed their monkeys in chorus, gazing fearfully at the oncoming longships.

 

"Who be ye?" asked an imposing Dwarrowdelf standing in the upper bow of the lead longship. He had a horned helmet on his head, was coated in glistening mail, and held a huge, double-bladed ax over his shoulder. He was a bit more than half the height of a tall human, and almost half again as broad as Broadax, with a nose like a turnip and a dense black apron of a beard that made their marine lieutenant's whiskers seem like a lady's peach fuzz.

The longship's forward-mounted guns were fully manned, and the crew seemed to have their huge axes close to hand. Melville's three Ships had all cleared for action. Their guns were not run out, but otherwise they were ready for battle.

It was a bit of a nuisance to take this precaution. It meant that everyone's bedding and personal equipment had to be swept up in a great bundle and taken below. It would take hours of hard work to straighten up and sort out his cabin afterward, and McAndrews would let him know about it. But, dammit, that was his steward's job. And if those longships were determined to fight, Melville and his Ships could be in a world of hurt if they were not ready. It would be pure chaos trying to clear away the guns and go into action while actually under fire. The battle, if there was going to be one, would be lost even before it was begun.

Bad enough to be shot at by allies, thought Melville. Even worse to not be able to respond if it happens.

Clearing for action was also a wake-up call to one and all. The anticipation and thrill of the preparation for battle, the piping of whistles, the harried commands of petty officers, the orderly rush of sailors, the tramp of marines marching to their stations, and the sharp orders of the officers all said that everyone aboard had to be at the ready. Ready for anything and everything the galaxy might throw at them.

Or as ready as three badly battered, undermanned Ships could be.

Nordheim had diplomatic relations with Westerness, complete with a human ambassador in residence, so Melville didn't anticipate too much difficulty. Still, he couldn't help but be anxious. But there was not a hint of nervousness in his voice as he responded.

"I am Captain Thomas T. Melville, of Her Majesty, the Queen of Westerness' 24-Pounder Frigate, the Fang." Melville was wearing his best uniform—lovingly brushed, primped and prepared by McAndrews and his monkey—complete with the gold medallion and emerald ribbon of the Order of Knights Companion of the King of Osgil hanging around his neck beside the platinum medallion with scarlet ribbon that denoted him as a member of the King of Stolsh's Royal Host of Glory.

The two Ships had come to a dead stop with their redside bows facing each other. They had to be fairly close for their two atmospheric fields to overlap enough for a conversation, but still each officer had to speak in a loud, clear voice to be heard, and every ear on the upperside of both Ships was listening.

"Aye!" replied the Dwarrowdelf. "By the Lady, we know of Melville, Friend of the Dwarrowdelf League. And we know of the mighty Fang. An' we honor ye, saviors of Osgil. Though ye do look a wee bit worse for the wear! But who be yon two raggedy Guldur Ships a bearin' the Westerness ensign?"

"They are two recent additions to the Westerness Navy. Four Guldur Ships attacked us. We sunk two and boarded the others. Now they are ours."

The Dwarrowdelf's eyes grew wide and he grinned, as a rumble came up from the longship's crew.

"Aye, laddie! Just like that, was it? Ye make it sound simple. Well I be Captain Strongfar, and I'd bet my beard ye've got one hell of a tale to tell. An' damn me if I wouldn't buy the ale to hear it!"

"Captain, I'd gladly swap that tale for a brew, but I'm here for a bit more than your famous ale. I'd like to barter for a complete refitting of our three Ships, and I have something of great value to offer in trade."

"Aye, do ye now laddie? Truly ye know the way to a Dwarrowdelf's heart! Tales of fierce battles against overwhelming odds and an offer to barter something of 'great value.' Then follow me. If yer raggedy pack o' wee battered boaties can make it the rest of the way without a tow!" Then he roared a great thundering laugh as his crew quickly and expertly pulled taut the spanker and jib sails at stern and bow. The longship spun sharply about under the pressure of these sails, then the mainsails were pulled taut and the Dwarrowdelf led the way to the Pier.

 

The Nordheim Pier spanned the dark blue plane of two-space like a great, glowing white wall. The Dwarrowdelf dislike of light gravity kept all of their buildings low, but they were spread wide and long and topped with endless crenelations, and all of it was coated with lambent, life-giving Moss.

As soon as they came into the atmospheric field of the Pier Melville had the Fang's 24-pounders bang out the proper salute. It seemed like every Dwarrowdelf on Nordheim gathered on the Pier to hear the fierce thunder of the Fang's 24-pounders. The answering salute by Nordheim's 12-pounders seemed weak in comparison.

Captain Strongfar directed Melville's Ships into the nearest dockyard. The three Ships came to rest at their designated docks, then Melville and Brother Theo stepped onto the glowing white surface of Nordheim's Pier. As the Ship's purser and a master negotiator, Brother Theo would play a key role in their transactions with the Dwarrowdelf.

Captain Strongfar met Melville and Theo, clasping wrists in the Dwarrowdelf fashion. Both humans had the powerful forearms of master swordsmen, but it was clear that Strongfar could have crippled them, snapping their wrists like twigs if he had wanted to. The Dwarrowdelf claimed that this was their traditional greeting, but Melville was convinced they did it as the most effective way to demonstrate their strength and intimidate any other species. Which was a good tradition by the best measure of such things, in that it seemed to have worked so far.

There was a brief exchange of pleasantries and an assistant came up with a huge pile of fur in his arms. Strongfar donned a cloak and a pair of boots made of thick black pelts, making him look even wider and fiercer. Melville and Theo followed his lead, then the Dwarrowdelf captain led the way down a stairway.

As soon as they stepped down the stairs and left the realm of two-space, Melville was met by a blast of icy cold and the strong pull of Nordheim's gravity. He could see his breath, and the air felt heavy. Cold and heavy. He was immediately grateful for the cloak of thick pelts that hung awkwardly over his uniform, and the soft fur boots that covered his otherwise bare feet.

He was on Nordheim! In the twinkling of an eye he has stepped down into a realm of bitter cold air, low wooden buildings, and sparkling snow and ice. From the stairs it was only a dozen steps through the biting cold before they came to a tavern. The sign overhead said "Glod's Rest" in English (and he assumed that the runic writing beside it said the same thing in the local tongue) above a swinging board with a disgruntled Dwarrowdelf painted on it. Melville and Theo ducked through the doorway behind Captain Strongfar, entering into a warm, cozy taproom amidst a swirl of snowflakes. The heat enfolded them like a blanket while Strongfar called out, "Ale, ye lazy laggardly wench! Hot ale for a Friend of the Dwarrowdelf League!" As they sat down to leather tankards of steaming hot mulled ale, they were joined by the Dwarrowdelf admiral and the Westerness ambassador.

"Now tell us yer tale, lad!" said Strongfar.

 

"Ha!" cried Captain Strongfar after Melville had related every detail of their battle, marking the positions of the various Ships with tankards atop the table, and charting their maneuvers in wet streaks of ale. "That is one grand tale to be telling yer babes and grandbabies in the years to come!"

A densely packed host of Dwarrowdelf had crowded around to hear the story, responding with roars of pleasure as Melville told of each Guldur Ship sunk or captured. His audience was especially enthusiastic when he told of Broadax's exploits in the battle.

Admiral Smitehard, the senior Dwarrowdelf naval commander, called out, "A toast to our brave friends: to Melville and his Fang, true Friends, noble Friends, worthy Friends of the Dwarrowdelf League!" This was greeted with a great roar of agreement and much quaffing of ale from the crowd. The admiral had a white avalanche of a beard, and the avalanche flowed with rock slides of golden ale as he drained his tankard.

Ambassador Theilharsen, the Westerness representative to Nordheim, was a fourth-generation citizen of this hi-gee world. He looked a lot like a Dwarrowdelf and had taken on distinctly Dwarrowdelf tendencies. The ambassador's eyes filled with tears of pride as he heard his countryman's tale.

"Tell me what it is you need, lad," boomed the ambassador. "And tell me what it is that you have to offer in payment, and I'll do my best to make sure these rascals don't swindle you."

"Swindle!" cried Admiral Smitehard. "Swindle, ye say! We'd nay swindle a hero and a friend such as this."

"Ha!" replied Ambassador Theilharsen. "You'd try to cheat your own mother if she wasn't twice as smart as you'll ever hope to be, you wretched rascal."

"Oh, aye, and me mother'd disown me if I didn't try," replied the admiral, "but that has nothing to do with this case. This is different. By the Lady I swear to ye, I barter with no axe in my hand!"

"Don't listen to him, son," said the ambassador. "When it comes to trade, these scalawags always go for the throat. It's in their genes. They don't know how to do anything else. They're like sharks smelling the scent of blood, or lawyers drawn by the promise of contingency fees."

"'Lawyers!'" roared the admiral, thumping his hand on the thick, wooden slab of a table with such force that the tankards bounced. An angry roar went up from the crowd as he continued. "'Lawyers' ye say! By me gramma's gray beard, ye've gone too low, sir! If ye weren't an ambassador that would demand a duel, it would!"

Melville looked at the thick underbrush of bristling beards that were crowding in around them. It occurred to him that if not for a steady dousing of ale, one stray spark could send them all up like dry straw.

"Pay no heed to him," said the ambassador with a wink. He seemed remarkably calm as he leaned back to take a drink of ale. "It's all bluff and bluster. They could teach greed to lawyers, and bloodsucking to leeches, but as long as you have something they want, you've got 'em by the beard. So what is it you're offering?"

"Well, sir," drawled Melville, working hard to remain nonchalant and cool in the face of so many angry Dwarrowdelf, "I'll tell you, but are you sure this is something we want everyone in the tavern to hear? If they're such fierce negotiators, is it wise to put all of our chips on the table?"

"Well said, Captain!" replied the ambassador, thumping his tankard down on the table. "Well said. Let us retire to your Ship, and these wretches can all stew in their juices. You outline the situation to me, and then I'll come back and cut a deal for you."

"Nay, nay!" cried the admiral and Captain Strongfar in what appeared to be sincere consternation.

"There's no need for that, laddie," said the admiral. "Ye can trust us to take good care of ye. Don't ye be turning us over to that penny-pinching, pencil-necked pen pusher. Anything but that!"

"Aye," replied Ambassador Theilharsen. "What he means is that I know their tricks, and I know to get it all down in writing, in triplicate. They hate to get their agreements in writing you know."

"O woe. Woe and doom! There it is!" cried the admiral, burying his head in his arms. "The writin' of it down with words on paper it is, and the living with it for generations to come. How's an honest man's children ever to re-negotiate—"

"You mean renege!" added the ambassador.

"—or rework a deal—" continued the admiral doggedly.

"Ha! You mean go back on your word!" interjected the ambassador.

"—in a world that's full of writing and paper everywhere?"

"Come on then, Captain Melville," said Ambassador Theilharsen as he stood up and finished his ale with a gulp.

Melville looked over at Brother Theo, who had been sitting serenely throughout the conversation, contentedly nursing his ale and never saying a word. The monk simply looked over at his captain with a benevolent smile and nodded.

"Aye, sir," replied Melville, standing up. "Under one condition, and that is that you keep my purser with you every step of the way, and he has final approval on the deal."

"Captain," said the ambassador, "you are young, but it is obvious that you are wise for one of your age. And the surest sign of that wisdom is your willingness to delegate to those who are experts in their field. My friends, one last toast to Captain Melville, and his good Ship, Fang!" Then he took the admiral's mug off the table, raised it high, and gulped it down.

Suddenly all the anger and animosity in the room fell away like the facade it so obviously was. A great roar of agreement shook the room, the admiral snatched a drink away from a hapless bystander, and everyone in the tavern drank to the toast. Except for the one fuming, flustered bystander.

 

"Well, it worked," said Ambassador Theilharsen three days later, as he sat in Melville's office aboard the Fang. Theilharsen was less than five feet tall, and twice as wide as a normal man, with a good-sized gut to go with it. Melville imagined he could hear the ambassador's chair groan as he plopped down into it.

McAndrews hustled in with two big mugs of ale while the monkey on his shoulder clutched a bowl of pretzels. Melville handed one mug to his guest and took the other as he sat down across the table while the steward set the pretzels between them. The ambassador grunted his thanks and drank deeply before he continued. "Once the Dwarrowdelf checked with their local chapterhouse of the Celebrimbor Shipwrights guild, they were ready to sell their mother's beards for two of those 24-pounders. How did you know it would take two guns? What do you suppose that's all about?"

"I don't know for sure, sir," replied Melville, "but when we were on Osgil the Sylvans were prepared to trade just about anything for two 24-pounders. I hate to even guess about matters involving the Celebri. Nobody in the galaxy wants to get crosswise of them. Still, I can't help but think they need two guns to... well to breed more."

"Damn!" replied the ambassador. "Breeding you say!" His thick gray beard burrowed into his barrel chest as he scratched his head in thought. "Do you really think so?"

"Well, it's one possible explanation," said Melville, taking a deep drink of his ale. "For whatever reason, however they do it, they seem to need at least two to create more, and I'd call that breeding stock."

"Aye, son. It may be best not to spread that thought around, but I appreciate you sharing it with me. Knowledge is power, but if you become too powerful you become a target. Whatever the reason, it worked. And the Dwarrowdelf were excited about what your pint-sized alien allies could do for them."

The ambassador chuckled and lifted his ale in a mock salute to the monkey on Melville's shoulder. The creature responded with a nod, an "Eep!" and a sip from Melville's mug as the ambassador continued.

"Broadax's little demonstration made true believers out of the admiral and old Strongfar," continued the ambassador. "Who'd have thought that critter could stop bullets like that? Your Broadax didn't seem worried, but damn her monkey fussed when they shot at her!" The Ambassador looked down thoughtfully and said, "You know, no offense intended, but in my humble opinion, anybody who would volunteer to be shot at, no matter how confident they are, is either foolishly optimistic or nuts!"

"And our Broadax is both!" said Melville with a chuckle.

"Aye," continued the Ambassador. "Anyway, after Broadax demonstrated that the monkeys can actually block bullets, Admiral Smitehard readily found a couple of Dwarrowdelf marine sergeants who were willing to transfer to the Westerness Navy and serve on the Biter and the Gnasher."

"Thank you sir," said Melville with a satisfied nod as he held his mug up, offering his monkey a drink. "This is one of the best gifts I can give those young commanders. Broadax has proven the value of a good Dwarrowdelf to lead their marines. And it will take time, but this is their best route to get some monkeys. I'm betting one will adopt them shortly after arriving aboard. When their enlistment ends they'll probably bring their monkey back with them, and wherever there is one, soon there will be more."

"Aye, so I understand," replied the Ambassador. "In a galaxy full of wondrous and amazing occurrences, those mysterious monkeys of yours are one of the damnedest things I've ever seen."

"Amen to that, sir. But how does it look for the Fang to get a few more Dwarrowdelf to enlist with our marines?"

"Ah, not so good there, lad. When a Dwarrowdelf goes out on a Wander-yahr and leaves his own people like this, he—or she—has to do it alone. So you only get one per Ship. It's a matter of honor, you see. With the Dwarrowdelf you either get a Shipload, or you get one, nothing in between."

"I guess it was too much to hope for more marines like Broadax on my Ship," replied Melville. "But just one could make all the difference for Archer and Crater. I figured the Dwarrowdelf would be willing to do it, just for the possibility of picking up some monkeys along the line. But, sir, do you think there's any way we can keep this business about the monkeys a secret, even to Earth?"

"Son, they wouldn't believe me, even if I told them. Hell, I'm not sure I believe myself, and I saw it! Besides, I'm doing this as a private contractor, making a tidy commission along the way. And what I do in private is nobody's damned business but my own. Eh?"

Then the ambassador stood up, finished his ale, wiped the froth from his beard, and concluded, "The Pier's dockyard captain superintendent will be coordinating with you tomorrow morning, and the dockyard will be giving their very best to each of your Ships. And Nordheim's best is very good indeed!"

 

Under the steely eyes of Dwarrowdelf dockyard officers, the three Ships were careened, and all damage was repaired. Fang, Gnasher, and Biter were rebuilt, reinforced, and made better than new with wood especially grown and twisted to shape over centuries on Nordheim's wintry slopes.

While the dockyard was doing their work, Melville was locked in a bitter struggle with himself. He yearned to steal some 24-pounders from Gnasher and Biter, and now was the time to make the transfer. He had the authority. Archer and Crater couldn't stop him, they wouldn't even try. They were happy just to have the Ships. They wouldn't complain. And it was his right, wasn't it? But Melville just couldn't do it. A war was coming, and he couldn't bring himself to rape those Ships and leave them with fewer 24-pounders than the Fang had. Damn he wanted more guns for his Ship! But, by God!, he wouldn't do it at Archer and Crater's expense.

Nordheim's dockyard was good and fast, but still it took almost a month to finish the work. Meanwhile, the crew of all three Ships had a chance to partake of Nordheim's various pleasures. Which consisted mostly of damned fine booze, and little else.

Most crew members agreed that the Dwarrowdelf food was almost as repulsive and unpalatable as their women, and any thought of a pleasant bar brawl with the locals was immediately rejected as a painful path to suicide. After imbibing enough of the excellent hooch, someone might have been drunk enough to consider the local ladies of negotiable virtue, but said "ladies" were completely uninterested in them.

Nor could they bring themselves to enjoy the bitter cold of any outdoors activity. As Ulrich put it, "I ain't seen my nutsk in t'ree days!"

So they adopted the standard operating procedures of the young sailor everywhere: "If it's cold outside, stay inside and drink until ya runs out of money, then head back to the Ship to eat and recover."

Even Roxy, their cook, had a miserable time as she bartered with the local victuallers for fresh food to fill the larders of their three Ships. This time of year about all that was avalable were potatoes and other root crops, along with dried peas and beans. There were also some smoked hams and plenty of venison jerky, but the Dwarrowdelf had strange ideas about spices that made even the jerky and the hams virtually inedible. And there was beer, of course. Lots of good beer.

Brother Theo, their purser, had limited success with his efforts to barter for goods to sell on Earth. The cargo they had aquired on Osgil was intended for trading to the earthlings, and the Dwarrowdelf had no interest in Sylvan luxury items. Theo couldn't get a good exchange for any of their current cargo, but he was able to use hard currency to purchase a good variety of luxurious furs, exotic wood, and splendid gems to fill Gnasher and Biter's holds. They were just lucky that the Ship's coffers were filled with gold from the Sylvan prize court. Gold always worked on Nordheim, and these items would bring spectacular prices on Earth.

So it was fairly safe to say that no one really enjoyed their stay on Nordheim. Except for Broadax and old Hans. They found a local room and "shacked up" happily during this period.

It could be argued that Lt. Broadax was, if anything, a positive influence on old Hans. Normally by this point in any liberty Hans would have been testing the patience of the shore patrol and most of the tavern owners, trying to prove he was the hardest-drinking, hardest-fighting, and hardest-loving man-jack in any port. Instead, he and Broadax had quietly disappeared... And no one really wanted to think about what he was trying to prove to anyone. Even more, no one wanted to ask him, for fear that he would have told them! Some things are definitely much better left unknown.

 

Shortly after their arrival Asquith was given a clean bill of health and released from the hospital. A task which Vodi performed in her own inimitable fashion.

"You call this a clean bill of health?" he shouted, as his monkey crouched fearfully on his shoulder. "One eye gone and you can't even replace it! What earthly good is your wretched, prehistoric, caveman excuse for medical care!"

"Ah," said Vodi, shaking her head sadly, "we save your life and nurse you back from the brink of death, wiping yer bottom and changing ya like a baby for weeks on end, and this is how you thank us. I've about had my fill of you, mister. Now," she said, leaning over and getting squarely into his face, "absquatulate!"

"Absquatulate?" repeated the confused Asquith, crouching back in his bunk, unconsciously pulling his blankets up around him as the large, menacing mass of Mrs. Vodi loomed over him, her monkey peering over her shoulder. Even worse, her huge, evil cat, Cuddles, had launched itself up on the bed to reinforce its master's commands. Asquith's baby monkey, meanwhile, was huddled out of sight under the covers.

"Absquatulate: verb, meaning to stop squatting, to pick up all your worldly goods, and boogie. Either that or I'll have to definistrate you.

"Definistrate?" he asked, his confusion and panic mounting.

"Definistrate: verb, meaning to throw someone out of a window. Failing that I may just jugulate you!

"J-jugulate?"

"Jugulate: to strangle. In other words, you ain't welcome here no more. I declare you healed, so y'all git!"

On that note, he launched himself from his bed and fled, his hospital gown flapping in the breeze behind him and his monkey eeping fearfully as it clung tightly to his back.

 

"Well," said one old salt as he watched the half-naked Asquith flee from the hospital, "I see Mrs. Vodi done heal't another one."

"Yup," replied his friend. "Anuther happy customer."

 

Asquith wanted a second opinion. He demanded to be put off the Ship and checked himself into a hospital at a local Dwarrowdelf religious institution, insisting that he was still ill and in need of medical care.

 

It took only a few more days for Melville and Brother Theo to coordinate for the burial of their dead. The frozen remains of their fallen comrades were pulled up from two-space, placed in sturdy coffins of local wood, lowered into graves hacked into the icy earth of Nordheim, and marked with fine granite stones carved by Dwarrowdelf stone masons.

It was cold. Bitter cold. No time for long eulogies today, thought Melville as he and his crew stood over the graves. Even in the best of circumstances, warriors seldom can afford long eulogies or extended periods of mourning. We must grieve intensely and briefly, and get on with living.

And so he stood over the grave of Warrant Officer Caleb Tibbits and all the others, and said his brief threnody, his lamentation for the dead, choking back his tears.

 
"Gashed with honorable scars,
Low in Glory's lap they lie;
Though they fell, they fell like stars,
Streaming splendour through the sky."
 

Then Brother Theo led them in the singing of "Taps" and that old, old tune rang out, sad and lonely beneath the snow clad evergreens, echoing from the frozen mountainsides.

 
"Day is done. Gone the sun.
From the lakes. From the hills. From the sky.
All is well, safely rest. God is nigh.
 
"Fading light. Dims the sight.
And a star. Gems the sky. Gleaming bright,
From afar, drawing nigh. Fall the night.
 
"Thanks and praise. For our days.
'Neath the sun. 'Neath the stars. 'Neath the sky,
As we go, this we know. God is nigh."
 

Thus, they laid their comrades to rest with proper honors. Promissory notes for their buyout shares had been mailed to everyone who had a next-of-kin on record, along with a letter of condolence from their captain... from Melville... from the man who had led them to their deaths.

The young captain thought briefly about the souls of all the enemy who had been killed and were not honored. How did the Iliad put it? "The rest were vulgar deaths, unknown to fame." Melville whispered a little prayer for his fallen enemy, and then they left their friends and Shipmates buried in the firm, final embrace of the frozen earth.

There would be a spring. The Dwarrowdelf assured them that there was a spring in this frozen land. And grass would grow upon these graves. But the Fangs would not be there to witness it. The dead were interred, and the living must get on with life.

 

Across the many days in dock, as Fang, Biter, and Gnasher rested against the Pier of Nordheim, the three sentient Ships were in constant communication with that ancient, sentient Pier. And the Ships told the tale of Kestrel. Or they passed on the essence of Kestrel herself as they exchanged Moss. The effect was the same.

Kestrel was one of the oldest Westerness Ships, and in her selfless, dying act she had helped her beloved crew capture Fang. And the dead which she slew in her dying were more than those which she slew in her life. In the process she passed on to young Fang the story of a turbulent, generous, affectionate, wolfling race of humans who loved their Ship with a great and abiding love. And a Ship who returned that love with equal intensity and purity. This story did the spawn of Kestrel tell to the Pier at Nordheim.

The three Guldur Ships also told their tales. Tales of bondage and hate that festered and polluted their decks. Tales of a dark, indomitable tide of death, destruction, and desolation that rolled across two-space. And a tale of the three Ships' liberation and gratitude. Of a strong young captain and brave young pups who now shared a fierce love with their Ships.

An enemy was coming, full of strength and hate. The race of men could not match that enemy strength to strength. But there was hope, for love belonged to the men of Westerness, and to their allies. And their Ships returned that love! The enemy could not give love, it would destroy them if they tried.

The ancient Pier at Nordheim listened, marveling that this young race should be worthy of such love from a child of the Lady. And the Pier kept this thing, and pondered it in her heart.

From that day on, each Ship that docked with the Pier at Nordheim was told this tale. Each Ship that shared Moss with the Pier became a part of Kestrel, and took her forth with them when they departed.

 

"Look over there, at the other end of the bar," said Mrs. Vodi. "I'll be damned if it isn't Cuthbert Asquith Ex Vee Aye hisself."

It was the crew's final night on Nordheim. Tomorrow they would set sail for Earth, and the Fang's wardroom had gathered for one last night of drinking at Glod's Rest, which had become their favorite watering hole. Melville and most of his officers were gathered beside a table—they generally didn't fit under it—next to a crackling fire.

Broadax and Hans were still in their love nest. Broadax had let Melville know that the Dwarrordelf here on Nordheim weren't particularly bothered by her choice of boyfriend. "They jist think 'e's a bad habit I'll grow out of," said Broadax.

Some of the other Fangs were relaxing with Ambassador Theilharsen and Captain Strongfar, both of whom had become staunch friends. A group of Dwarrowdelf miners were gathered around the bar lustily chanting a classic Robert Service poem about gold, of course.

 
"I wanted the gold, and I sought it,
I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
Was it famine or scurvy—I fought it;
I hurled my youth into a grave."
 

And sure enough, on the other side of the room, Asquith and his baby monkey were morosely nursing a beer.

 
"I wanted the gold, and I got it—
Came out with a fortune last fall—
Yet somehow life's not what I thought it,
And somehow the gold isn't all."
 

Vodi had visited the little earthling several times while he was at the local hospital, boring him in her delightfully distracting manner with all the minutia and gossip of the Fang. And she had a delicious tidbit of news to share.

 
"No! There's the land. (Have you seen it?)
It's the cussedest land that I know,
From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it
To the deep, deathlike valleys below."
 

"It seems that our earthling checked himself into a Dwarrowdelf hospital, which happens to be run by a church. He was placed under the care of a Dwarrowdelf sister. And apparently the name 'Mattila' is a common Dwarrowdelf name."

"No!" said Fielder, looking up with pleasure.

"Yes!" Vodi replied gleefully. "I swear to you. After just a few days he was desperate to escape the tender mercies of Matilla the Nun!"

 
"Some say God was tired when He made it;
Some say it's a fine land to shun;
Maybe; but there's some as would trade it
For no land on earth—and I'm one."
 

"I declare, that man's got no more sense than a dog," said Vodi. "It's because he's color-blind," she continued. "Everyone knows that dogs are color-blind. In humans, color blindness is almost entirely a male disorder. Really. People who are color-blind have a dog gene. They also often pee in corners. That's why they're mostly male."

The purity and beauty of her logic stunned them all into silence for just a second, then they all nodded solemnly and drank to that. And the Dwarrowdelf continued their Service chanty in the background.

 
"You come to get rich (damned good reason);
You feel like an exile at first;
You hate it like hell for a season,
And then you are worse than the worst."
 

Then the Fangs all watched as Asquith stood up on unsteady feet and lifted his mug to the assembled Dwarrowdelf at the bar. The miners paused their chant politely to let him have his say.

"I will drink beer," began Asquith loudly.

The Dwarrowdelf all roared their agreement and drank to that. Asquith's monkey stretched out its head and drank deeply from his mug as he continued.

"Beer is the mind-killer. Beer is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my beer. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the beer has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain."

That brought a fierce roar of approval from everyone in the tavern, human, and Dwarrowdelf alike. Especially the Dwarrowdelf, who thought it was wonderfully clever. After gold they loved to sing and chant about beer and ale more than anything else. And they liked Dune. A lot. Even if there weren't any dwarves in the book. Anyway, the Fremen did have a lot of beards.

Then the miners raised their tankards in a vigorous reply to Asquith's salute, and continued,

 
"It grips you like some kinds of sinning;
It twists you from foe to a friend;
It seems it's been since the beginning;
It seems it will be to the end."
 

Melville took the opportunity to walk over to Asquith. He put a friendly hand on the earthling's shoulder and said, "Well said! Now come and join us, my friend."

"Am I welcome?" asked Asquith.

"You are a Shipmate, and the Fang is your home for now," replied Melville with a friendly grin. "My dad always said that 'home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you!' Come on."

So the two of them came back to join the Fangs and they all drank a toast to the diminutive earthling.

"Tell us about Matilla the Nun!" said Fielder.

"Oh, God, you don't want to know," replied Asquith. "I thought it was bad aboard the Fang, but now I apologize. It's a harsh old world out there, my friend."

"Eep," agreed Asquith's monkey sadly as it gulped his beer.

There was a chorus of agreement and long quaffs all around in response to that.

 
"The winter! the brightness that blinds you,
The white land locked tight as a drum,
The cold fear that follows and finds you,
The silence that bludgeons you dumb."
 

"Old Bobbie Service was at the top of his form when he wrote this one," said the ambassador as he leaned back and enjoyed the miners' chanting with sincere emotion. "What a master of our language that man was, and how the Dwarrowdelf honor him."

"Aye," added Captain Strongfar. "It's that damned 'all conquering English language' of yers, as Churchill put it. There was some Dwarrowdelf blood in Churchill, ye know. All ye have to do is look at him to see it. And the Words, ah them Words, aye they capture our very soul."

"You know," said the ambassador, "the English language became dominant because the British Empire was dominant, but also because there was never any governing body to control it."

"Aye!" said Strongfar. "Kind of like the Dwarrowdelf, ye know. No central government for us! Even our planetary leaders, what you would call our kings, are best translated 'mine boss' or 'union steward.' And we'll run the rascals out of office if they don't take care of the people and the land."

 
"I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow
That's plumb-full of hush to the brim;
I've watched the big, husky sun wallow
In crimson and gold, and grow dim,"
 

"So English was allowed to grow, to live, to evolve naturally," continued the ambassador with a nod. "It's the kind of thing that ambassadors study, but most people don't really understand. Latin was killed by the Ciceronians, who maintained that only words used in the writings of Cicero were true Latin. Essentially their efforts were to freeze Latin from the time of Cicero, and because of that they stopped Latin from evolving. What does not grow, dies."

That sounded like it deserved a toast, so they all drank happily to that concept as the ambassador continued.

"Once upon a time French was the lingua franca. But the French Academy was established to guard the 'purity' of the language, which doomed it, because they wouldn't allow it to evolve, to adapt. The failure of their language to adapt to the needs of their empire might actually have been why their empire failed."

"But English has never had a controlling body, has it?" asked Melville with keen interest.

"Aye, lad," replied the old ambassador. "And English is the only language on Earth in which the first-person singular is capitalized. Therefore 'I' is emphasized, empowering the individual. 'I' decide what my language is. And English is the only major language that keeps the original spelling of the language from which the word came. We have no qualms about stealing words. And it is stealing, not borrowing, because we have no intention of returning them. We even keep some of the original rules."

Mrs. Vodi added, "The English language is a lot like the old United States. A melting pot in which everything is welcome. Or maybe a better model would be a stew pot, in which spicy new 'chunks' are welcome."

"Aye," said Captain Strongfar. "Of course, everyone accepts it in their own way. The Sylvans have their silly affectation with all those 'thous' and 'thees.' We play it pretty straight, although our use of 'ye' instead of 'you' is a bit of an affectation, I suppose, if truth be told. But ye Westerness folk are the ones with the damnedest assortment of dialects, accents, and affectations. There is yer Corporal Kobbsven's Scandinavian lilt, and all those southern and hillbilly accents. As best I can tell, the further their homeworld is from Earth or Westerness, the more pronounced those accents become. The one I can't figure out, though, is yer coxswain, Ulrich. Where in the deep bowels of the Elder King's frozen black hell did he come from?"

"Well, he's not saying," replied Melville, "and no one really knows. The one thing we can all agree on, though, is that the linguistically innovative and syntactically challenged Ulrich doesn't really have an accent. He has a passionate grudge against the English language, and he tortures it with malice aforethought. But the good news is that you have chosen to speak our language, and as your guest please permit me to say, 'thank you' for that."

"The alternative is to try to communicate in the Dwarrowdelf tongue," said the ambassador, "which is as twisted and tortuous as their damned mining tunnels! For example, they employ something called the 'triple negative.' So someone might ask you in Dwarrowdelf, 'Isn't it not that you aren't feeling well today?'"

"What in the hail does that mean?" asked Westminster, who was leaning quietly back in a corner smoking a pipe.

"DamnedifIknow," replied the ambassador with a shrug. "That's why we always negotiate in English!"

"Foul calumny and infamy!" said Strongfar. "The perfidious slander of weak minds that cannot grasp the beauty of a truly complex language. Still, sadly, it's true that everywhere I go, as I sail the vast expanse o' two-space, it's yer language, literature, and poetry that rules the hearts of millions, nay billions, across the vast galaxy. So here's to yer wolfling civilization that sprung up without any help from others, and yer all-conquering language, ye magnificent bastards! It looks like ye showed up just in time to help us kick the Guldurs' hairy arses!"

That earned another great cheer and a mighty quaff of ale, while the Dwarrowdelf chorus continued in the background.

 
"The snows that are older than history,
The woods where the weird shadows slant;
The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery,
I've bade 'em good-by—but I can't."
 

Melville knew that it was time for him to leave. His officers could linger for a while longer, but as their captain he felt that he must lead the way.

The young captain sat in the warm inn, knowing that he had been fortified and renewed by his visit to this harsh world. Outside the winter wind howled and the sleet hissed upon the windows. In here were the warm ambers and reds of the open hearth where the fire popped and glowed as potatoes baked and a big kettle of mulling ale simmered sweetly, the fat candles flickered, monkeys chittered quietly from overhead, and sleeping dogs rumbled beneath the benches.

 
"It's the great, big, broad land 'way up yonder,
It's the forests where silence has lease;
It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
It's the stillness that fills me with peace."
 

The fragrance of the place seeped into his soul, warming him to his core as much as the heat that flowed from the hearth. It was an organic odor of old hardwood walls and furniture imbued with countless applications of beeswax polish, generations of tallow smoke, fresh pinewood scent seeping from the fire, frothy beer, wet boots, and damp dogs.

Outside, the building shuddered beneath the fierce wind. Inside his spirit was warmed by good companions tried and true, new friends, and quiet conversations after an evening of loud, lewd, and lusty songs, with contented bellies thoroughly wrapped around good beer.

It all seemed terribly precious and dear to him, and a part of him knew that it might never again be the same. Soon it might all be destroyed by the politicians and the Admiralty on Earth. He was under orders to report to the Westerness Admiralty at Earthport, and he would obey, but he knew that his heroic deeds, so honored and lauded by the Sylvans and Dwarrowdelf, would not be appreciated by the timid little men in charge on Earth. Those small sad souls feared change and fled into denial as their only bulwark against the cruel, harsh galaxy that was coming to attack them. And ultimately, unfortunately, they would be the ones who passed judgment upon Captain Thomas Melville and his friends.

 
"They're making my money diminish;
I'm sick of the taste of champagne.
Thank God! when I'm skinned to a finish
I'll pike to the Yukon again."
 

A bitter bile built up in his stomach and throat as he considered what might wait for them on Earth. It was hard not to be in control. After being literally the captain of his fate as they traveled between the stars and fought their way across a sizable slice of the galaxy, it was hard for him to accept what might be waiting for them. A part of him wanted to break free from authority, to return to Osgil and accept the offer that the High King of the Sylvans had made. To place himself, his Ship, and his crew under Sylvan authority. In essence, to rebel from authority, to defect from his nation.

 
"The strong life that never knows harness;
The wilds where the caribou call;
The freshness, the freedom, the farness—
O God! how I'm stuck on it all."
 

Rebel. Defect. Ugly words. Pitiful, wretched words when matched up against the fierce beauty of his two harsh mistresses: duty and honor.

Melville sat for one last moment, drinking up all the sight and sound and smell he could, feeling a great wave of the dull ache that one great author had termed "anticipated nostalgia." Then he gave a heavy sigh, stood up, paid the tab, flung on his great fur cape, whistled for his dog, and with one last nod to the room he prepared to go out into the bitter cold. But he went forth with a fierce inner fire of contentment and peace, knowing that he was doing his duty and acting with honor.

 
"I'll fight—and you bet it's no sham-fight;
It's hell!—but I've been there before;
And it's better than this by a damsite—
So me for the Yukon once more."
 

Melville's monkey came scampering across the room, scurried up his side, and nestled under the cape, wrapped around its master's neck like a scarf, with only its head peeking out. Boye leapt up cheerfully, trotting happily along beside him, eager for adventure, with the requisite monkey nestled deep into the thick ruff at the dog's neck. Then he went out into the night with a blast of cold, a flurry of snow, and one last wave to his friends, ducking through the low doorway with a final Robert Service stanza echoing in his ears.

 
"There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting;
It's luring me on as of old;
Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting
So much as just finding the gold."
 

His dog was the personification of happiness and delight as they left. Boye rubbed his head against Melville's thigh, and he reached down to rub the dog's ears. Wagging his tail enthusiastically, the great beast stood up on hind legs to sniff inquisitively, his hot breath covering Melville's face in a warm cloak.

The dog didn't borrow trouble. He lived in the present, finding joy in eager bounding through the snow drifts, while the dog's monkey held on like a rider at a steeple chase, eeking merrily.

The young captain looked at Boye romping in the lamplight of the surrounding buildings, and he laughed out loud as they went down the street. He lobbed a snowball that dropped quickly in the heavy gravity, and the dog leapt up to catch it in a happy, chomping explosion of snow.

Like his faithful companion, Melville had an irrepressible, cheerful spirit. He would never be worth a damn at mathematics, or the engineering and mechanics of a Ships' sailing plan. Others would have to do that for him. But he possessed a few Gifts that were unfolding in a satisfying manner. The Voice of command and authority, something that many leaders never develop, was coming early for him. He had a knack for poetry that often provided the right Words at the moment of truth, and he had the ability to communicate them well. He was a natural at tactics and military history, and he was very good with a sword and a pistol. But perhaps his most important Gift was his ability to live intensely in the present.

Most humans spend all their energy thinking and worrying about what happens next or what just happened. They cling desperately to the past, or they live in dread and anticipation of the future. The only time they deal with now is by looking back on it. And because of this, most people live in fear, dreading the future instead of living in the present.

Perhaps it was because he lived so completely in the present that Melville was generally fearless. It was something most dogs can do. That's why dogs are usually happy and ready for a romp, a nap, a fight, or a tummy rub at a moment's notice. Dogs just avoid the whole angst business. Melville felt that people could learn a lot from dogs. They seemed to have things better worked out, dogs.

For Melville, as long as there was life there was hope. And where there is hope there can be no despair. So he threw back his head, smelled the crisp cold air, and looked up at the ancient alien white peaks all around him. And above those mountains...

 
...the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming,
And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop;
And I've thought that I surely was dreaming,
With the peace o' the world piled on top.
 

What the hell. He never was any good at the whole angst thing. The dog's spirit was infectious, and Melville couldn't help but feel that wherever they went, whatever they did, whatever was waiting for them, it would be... an adventure. Out there, somewhere.

 

* * *

 
There's a land where the mountains are nameless,
And the rivers all run God knows where;
There are lives that are erring and aimless,
And deaths that just hang by a hair;
 
There are hardships that nobody reckons;
There are valleys unpeopled and still;
There's a land—oh, it beckons and beckons,
And I want to go back—and I will.
 

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Framed