It's "Gang-plank up and in," dear lass,
It's "Hawsers warp her through!"
And it's "All clear aft" on the old trail,
our own trail, the out trail,
We're backing down the Long Trail—
the trail that is always new.
The Lord knows what we will find, dear lass,
And the deuce knows what we may do—
But we're back once more on the old trail,
our own trail, the out trail,
We're down, hull down, on the Long Trail—
the trail that is always new."The Long Trail"
Rudyard Kipling
After dinner in the wardroom that first night, as usual, the doings of their shore leave was a key topic of discussion.
"Did you get anything while you were ashore?" Mrs. Vodi asked Lt. Broadax.
"Aye. Ol' Hans said 'e wus worried about my mood
swings," replied Broadax, "so 'e bought me this mood ring ta help him keep track o' how I'm feeling. See?" she said, holding it out as Mrs. Vodi and her monkey gazed admiringly at the ring. "When I'm in a good mood this stone turns green. An' when I'm in a bad mood it leaves a big freakin' red mark on 'is forehead! By the Lady, mebee next time 'e'll buy me a damned diamond!"
"Well," said Fielder, with a sympathetic nod toward Hans, "as that ancient haiku master, the Venerable Professor Satori wrote:
"Why buy a diamond?
With the pressure she exerts,
All you need is coal."
After feeling the warmth (or rather the lack thereof!) of the Admiralty's welcome on Lenoria, the Fangs were more than happy to leave as quickly as possible and defrost their tail ends. With Roxy the cook having managed to return to the Ship through various low and sneaky methods, Melville had a start on improving the crew's culinary conditions.
This was advanced significantly when Lady Elphinstone and Lt. Broadax prevailed upon Captain Melville to assign Kaleb Jones to the marine contingent as their nominal cook—which gave Lt. Broadax control and approval of Jones' menus. Luckily for the marines' sensitive digestive tracts, (sensitive in comparison to the Dwarrowdelf and the Guldur anyway) this agreement also made sure the marines got to eat with the sailors.
Almost everyone was happy with this arrangement. The sole exception being Kaleb Jones himself, who was somewhat unhappy about being assigned to the marines. While he didn't mind cooking for them, his attitude was more along the lines of: "No way in hell I'm gonna belong t' th' damned marines!"
This unsatisfactory attitude was corrected quite handily by the senior marine aboard, Lt. Broadax herself. While the counseling session was conducted privately in the wardroom, the betting was heavily in favor of broken bones and contusions on Jones, rather than permanent lasting damage. All and sundry were firmly convinced that Broadax valued him as a cook, and equally convinced that his big mouth and her explosive temper would make for an entertaining session, even secondhand.
Alas for all those betting, the session was apparently conducted peacefully and quietly with the two of them departing in apparent amity and friendliness. An appearance that was only mildly marred by one of the wardroom's chairs having been broken into hand-length kindling pieces (with the only tool marks being impressions of Broadax's fingers in the hard oak), and stacked neatly in front of Jones' chair.
"The map of our Star Kingdom of Westerness," said Brother Theo, "can be perceived as being much like the United States in her early years. This analogy is quite fragile and purely contrived, and can be dangerous if taken too far. Never forget that this model is based on an artificiality, a generally agreed upon convention to call this the 'upper' side and to view everything from this perspective. But by doing so we come up with a map of the galaxy which has us in the west like Westerness or the Shire, and Osgil and the Guldur to the east, just like the Tolkien mythos."
Brother Theo's students, complete with the usual batch of idlers, were listening intently as the monk explained. This was more than the usual academics. This was no less than an outline of their kingdom's current reality, and their Ship's destiny and plans within that reality.
"Or you can use another paradigm and think of the planet Earth as New York, the Grey Rift as the Atlantic Ocean, and Westerness as Washington, DC, or thereabouts. Lenoria might be thought of as Pittsburgh in the early frontier days. If we use this model, then we will be sailing completely across the continent, or across the galactic arm, to the rim world of Show Low, which is similar to San Francisco in its old, Barbary Coast days. The Far Rift is comparable to the Pacific Ocean, and our final objective will be a star cluster called the Hero Cluster, which is analogous to a group of islands in the middle of the ocean."
This generated a buzz of excitement from his listeners. They had heard that they were headed to the Rim, and from there across the Far Rift and out into the vastness of two-space, but this was the first time they had received so much detail.
"Again," concluded the monk, "these models must be used with extreme caution. We are not America, nor are we Tolkien's Westerness or the Shire. We are us. No more and no less. But whoever we are, we are off on an adventure, my friends."
Thus the Fang started on the next round of her appointed port calls. Normally, Ships of the Westerness Navy were assigned a route that allowed for a reasonable amount of trading, with periodic ports capable of handling the liberty needs of a group of sailors and marines far from home wanting to bleed off stress in the time-honored fashion of indulging in too much alcohol, loose women, and open spaces under wide blue (or green, yellow, indigo, and varied other color schemes) skies.
Unfortunately, the tin gods of the Admiralty hadn't finished with them yet.
The Fang found herself out amidst the dark, rolling, forgotten planets of the kingdom, on a tour of the smallest and newest one-Pier worlds that the Admiralty could put together on reasonably short notice. To keep civilization alive on these worlds, Ships had to visit, dropping off interstellar mail as well as magazines such as Home and Gardens, Vogue, Saturday Evening Post, and Home on the Range Monthly, delivering one copy for each planet, which was then reproduced and distributed. Since there was normally no chance of turning a profit on these runs, the Admiralty had to literally pay for the privilege of sending them out to the back end of the galaxy by remitting a portion of their required payments for each planet visited.
"So far you've only observed major ports," Brother Theo told Asquith as they stood at the stern rail a few days after leaving Lenoria. "You've seen Earth, Lenoria, Ambergris, and Osgil, some of which have a hundred or more pilings, or Keels, or Piers making up their port. But there is a limited supply of Keels. Truly, they are the most valuable commodity in our civilization. They can be utilized for Piers, or for Ships, but not both.
"Thus, you have seen the great ports, and now you are about to see the norm. On most of our worlds there is only one piling coming up to form the Pier. These are the choke points in our kingdom. Indeed, the paucity of Piers and Ships are the limiting factor in our galactic civilization."
"What is stopping us from making more?" asked Asquith.
"You can ask our new carpenter and resident Celebri Guild member, Mr. DeWalt, but he won't tell you," replied Theo. "All the Guild will say is that they are doing the best job they can, manufacturing Keels as fast as humanly possible. And I have no cause to doubt them. Over the years many individuals of great political power have come from the Celebri, and if it were within their power to produce more, I have no doubt that they would do so."
"Okay, I'll forgo the dubious pleasure of asking DeWalt, who gives even longer answers than you do. And I understand that now we're going to see the rural, pastoral aspect of Westerness."
"Nooo," said the monk, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "There is a beautiful, rural, pastoral side to Westerness. But this isn't it. What we are about to see are the kind of nowhere worlds that exist only to avoid the embarrassment of having a big open patch on the map. Verily, I tell you. Somewhere there's a potbellied bureaucrat who looks at the map of our galactic arm and says, 'Hey, that's too big an open patch. We need a stopover there.' So the explorers make an extra effort until they find some marginal world that will support life, and poof, there you have it, a blank spot on the map neatly filled in. The little clerk in Westerness is happy, and a bunch of wretched folks must live on this hell hole. And we have to visit them."
"The fun just never stops," muttered Asquith. "One more question, if I may ask it of you, Brother?"
"Certainly."
"I'm working on my second book, and I'm trying to figure out a way to help the readers keep the deck plan of the upper and lower sides straight. Hell, I still get mixed up sometimes! Have you got any suggestions?"
"I believe I may be able to assist," replied the monk with a genial smile, pulling out a pencil and the notebook where he kept many of the working notes for his duties as the Ship's purser. "I actually have it sketched out here," he said flipping through pages of load plan sketches, manifest lists, and stores usage calculations. "Here it is! See?" he continued, pointing with his pencil at a meticulously drawn illustration of two deck plans, side-by-side and virtually identical. "This is a diagram of the Fang's upperside, and here, right beside it, is the lowerside."
"They look the same to me," said Asquith.
"Ah, but it's what's different that is important. Notice that the greenside and the redside are in different directions, and the names of the guns and the cutters are different! And the hatches that the captain uses to cut through from the upper to the lower sides in combat are a tad off center. Now, take this page, and fold it right here, and, ta-da! The greensides and the redsides are on the same side, and the hatches line up!"
"Huh!" said Asquith, taking the book and folding the page in, and then back again. "I think I get it!"
"May I humbly suggest that you put an illustration like this in your book?"
"Maybe," the diminutive earthling author replied cautiously as he digested the idea. "You know, it might just work. I saw something like this on the back cover of a Mad Magazine once."
Their journey would take them through little of the greatness of Westerness. Cuthbert Asquith the XVI described the series of one-Pier worlds as the "Smallness of Westerness" which neatly outlined the cluster of one-horse, one-Pier ports they visited. This term also neatly described the small minds and timid spirits back at the Admiralty, a viewpoint which Asquith was gleefully happy to record in his next book.
The Fang's course was more reminiscent of the garbage man's route through alleys and cul-de-sacs rather than the tomcat march of the best damned Ship afloat—which the Fangs knew they deserved! As old Hans put it, "The only way ta git ta these hellholes is by mail packet or by accident!"
One shining light in the unrelenting blandness of their trek through that vast obscurity where the dark planets of the kingdom spun in the lonely night, was Brother Theo. The cherubic monk was able to acquire the finest comestibles and potables that each world had to offer, at the best possible prices. The Fang was a wealthy Ship, just back from foreign climes, battles, and hardship tours (not to mention their experience with Jones' abominable cooking) so they spent money like... well, like sailors. They purchased exotic local varieties of microbrewery beer, wine, steaks, roasts, seafood, homemade baked goods, vegetables, and fruits to fill their larders. All of the finest and freshest quality.
From the mess deck to the wardroom to the captain's table, none of the crew had ever experienced such food. Even their perennially insatiable midshipmen found themselves fully satisfied with the quantity of food that was provided. And, happily for their marines, Kaleb Jones was still able to placate the esoteric tastes of their resident Dwarrowdelf.
In addition to providing an endless flow of local delicacies from countless worlds, Brother Theo was also a wizard at figuring out cargos that would turn a decent profit from port to port, as well as when they reached civilization again. He was determined to make them all rich (or richer depending on your perspective) and that was an objective that every Fang aboard could support wholeheartedly.
The only crew member who was completely happy with this rather mundane state of affairs was Asquith. There was no combat, no excitement to distress the little earthling, and he was able to sell a copy of his book at every stop. The book was quickly purchased by a local publisher who would reprint and market it on their world, and then would hawk it off to even more worlds. Inside of a few months his book could be found on most of the planets in the star kingdom, being touted as "A Bestseller on Earth!" and "A true story of the greatest hero of our age."
Despite the lack of stimulation in their journey, the Fangs knew there was a valid reason for every stop. Each of these worlds was a member of their great star kingdom, hungry for news and information from the major planets. And, unlike early colonists on Earth, they were a literate people, educated and intent on improving their lot in life. (Or at least to find some literary escapism and cheap entertainment in their lives.)
Westerness' control of its empire was not merely a matter of her Ships, although those mighty symbols of trade and power were a critical ingredient. Westerness' rule also was represented by a permanent and organized system which had immense power to accumulate, absorb, and assimilate local institutions.
There was a whole nexus of professional, social, and psychological links that permeated all levels of the star kingdom, all serving to bind them together. Westerness had made a huge investment, politically, economically, and culturally, in expanding the frontier to the far edge of the galactic arm and beyond, and they were determined not to lose it. And (perhaps most importantly) they were determined to gain a return on their investment. This had to be done very carefully, maintaining bonds of kinship and fidelity, while turning a profit without alienating the far-flung citizens.
The viability of the frontier depended not just on communications within the region, but also on the maintenance of links back to Westerness and the core planets. All of which required substantial shipping assets, and even the smallest of planets was usually provided with a small two-space Ship to meet local needs.
Salutes were exchanged with the local Ships as they approached each Pier. Initially the salute was in time, but once the local crew fired the first few shots they often fell further and further behind, as the weary, potbellied reservists tried to keep up. And always there was the question, "How many shots to honor a three-masted Ship commanded by a lieutenant?" The resultant answer varied from port to port as they traveled across the vast expanse of Westerness.
It was rare for a mighty frigate (or even a three-masted "sloop") to visit such minor worlds as these. In many cases the Fang was the biggest Ship the locals had ever seen. Indeed, their arrival would have been a major sensation in most of these ports, had there been a sufficient critical mass of population for a good sensation to get off the ground.
The planets they visited were filled with weary women, determined farmers, cagey hunters, and fierce-looking trappers with beards, buckskin, and a smell to match any pelt. (In some cases, the pungent odor of the untanned hides was actually a relief from the smell of the trappers!) And all of them were, as Asquith put it, "talking in authentic frontier gibberish."
On a few occasions they were called upon to move parties of settlers from one backwater world to another. Because the Fang was far larger than the usual Ships that plied these small ports, she was a natural method of transport for big groups who had long ago sent in requests to move to another world. The Fangs felt sorry for these brave souls, and yet they were respectful of their hardy pioneer spirit.
The crew tried, in their rough, sailor fashion, to be kind and supportive to their passengers. Toward the end of each short voyage, the captain always held a special meal for them. The settlers were assembled for a dinner in their honor on the upperside waist and Melville always offered a toast to them. A toast that was shared wholeheartedly by his officers and crew.
"Here's to you, my fellow adventurers," he said, "and to your new lives as a part of this new frontier world. My brothers and sisters, you are the future. Work hard, live well, be happy and fertile, and keep your powder dry! I hope that someday we can meet each of you again. Until then, may God bless you and keep watch over you."
Then Brother Theo sent them forth with an ancient blessing upon their new home. "'Blessed of the Lord be this land, for the precious things of heaven, for the dew, and for the deep that coucheth beneath. And for the precious fruits brought forth by the sun, and for the precious things put forth by the moon. And for the chief things of the ancient mountains, and for the precious things of the lasting hills.'"
And these Words from a man of the cloth were a great comfort to their passengers.
In the end, Words and respect were all they had to give.
For Cuthbert Asquith XVI, one major benefit of the long trip had been a chance for target practice. And some more practice. And still more practice.
He had railed and sniveled at the thought of learning to shoot, but now he was surprised to learn that he actually enjoyed it! Shooting well was a joy, and once he started to practice, he could feel himself relax and his aim improve.
He had spent some time with Brother Theo and Daniel, benefiting from their tips and learning to shoot well, but he found that the most improvement simply came from practice. It was like the hoary old joke from well before the Crash:
"Hey buddy, can you tell me how I can get to Carnegie Hall?"
"Practice!"
Even though Carnegie Hall didn't exist anymore, the philosophy (and the joke) still applied.
So Asquith tried to enjoy a little shooting during every day of this interminable trip through the alleys and backroads of Westerness. He didn't stand watch, nor had he any assigned tasks as a paying passenger, and the library had palled during his first month onboard. (If you could use the term "library" to describe several shelves of classic science fiction, reference manuals and texts, and a few torrid romance novels that no one seemed to claim but were nevertheless well-thumbed and -read.)
To Asquith, the choices were fairly slim: spend each day writing and drinking until he could no longer write, or find some outside interest to fill his day.
He told himself that he already had one full-time vice called writing, and a second full-time vice of drinking would interfere with his first vice. So it was clear to him that he needed to fill the void with other interests, and pistol shooting had done wonderfully well. (Not to mention, he still remembered the incident as a young man when some so-called friends had recorded images of him at a party experimenting with some of the miscellaneous intoxicants available on Earth. The imagery had convinced him that looking like a fool was quite embarrassing, and had played a strong part in his initial decision to take the drastic step of traveling off Earth!)
Asquith was having his monkey reload his pistol, using the technique that Ulrich had taught him. And, in keeping with the coxswain's "request" Asquith only practiced this in secret, shooting from the little coxswain's private area. He found that he quickly got used to the smell of the pigeon coops and the laundry. After a lifetime on Earth, it almost felt like home.
He relaxed and took a deep breath, then let it out part way and held it as the first pistol came up and the front sight came into focus on the center of the target suspended out from the side of the Ship. He touched the nipple on one barrel and then the other <<purr!>> Crack! <<purr!>> Crack! Then he laid the muzzle of the pistol on his shoulder and his monkey rapidly reloaded while his left hand gun came up <<purr!>> Crack! <<purr!>> Crack! With all four rounds grouped nicely at the black spot in the center of the silhouette.
For Asquith, the hardest part of learning to shoot with either hand had been the coordination of twisting his one good eye so that he could see clearly down the sightline of his left pistol. At one point he had tried something called a "border shift" where, after firing with his right hand, he attempted to juggle and shift the two guns from hand to hand.
Right in the middle of this maneuver Ulrich appeared from out of nowhere. Ulrich's monkey snatched Asquith's pistols out of midair while the crazed coxswain screwed his own pistol onto Asquith's nose.
"Now, ya ain't gonna do somethink so stupkid agin, are ya?" snarled Ulrich. "Da Ship moves! An' da fightink moves. So ya don't wants yer gunsk outa yer hands. Got ik?"
"Heeere kittykittykitty!" added his parrotlet.
The little lunatic was like that: he and his feral monkey would show up out of nowhere, make a point, and disappear again. He wasn't malicious, but for some reason known only to God and Ulrich himself, he seemed to approve of Asquith and his shooting.
As his right gun lined up on the target he was reminded quite forcefully of their resident psychopath when he felt a rock strike the back of his head. Whack! Asquith's head bounced forward with the impact and he pivoted, the pistol arcing around in front of him.He felt a blow to the inside of his right arm as his pistol was smacked aside, and he felt that damned cold muzzle socket itself onto the end of his nose again like it grew there!
"Damn it, Ulrich!" he said with a whiney nasal intonation caused by the blockage of his nostrils. "What in the hell are you playing at? That hurt!"
Then his mind caught up with his body which had frozen cross-eyed staring at the barrel of Ulrich's pistol. The coxswain's monkey (looking feral and vicious as always) had its head beside Ulrich's, smiling a malevolent upside-down smile and flipping a little dagger between four hands.
Ulrich's parrotlet was bobbing happily on top of his monkey's head. The bird hopped onto the front sight of Ulrich's pistol, looked Asquith in the eye, and said, "I'm Spike! I taste like chicken!"
The coxswain laughed quietly as he removed the pistol (and the bird) making the gun disappear as the bird fluttered back up to his shoulder. "Ya know, yer responsk was pretty good there. If'ink I waskn't ready ya'd 've 'ad me in yer skights. I likesk that, I does I does."
"So why'd you do that?!"
"Yer gettink better wit' dem piskols, so's I figgers iks time fer ya ta learn how ta shootsk under combat condish-kins," replied Ulrich.
"Pray tell me, sir, whatever do you mean?" Asquith replied sarcastically. Ulrich was an interesting character, and Asquith had come to realize that the man, while he was as dangerous as a pissed-off cobra (and likely twice as fast) seemed to enjoy passing on these tidbits of combat wisdom.
Ulrich looked at him seriously. "See, ta captaink, he's damned good 'n ta furball. Fightsk like he's sum kinda crazy man, but he fightsk smart. He gotsk the best sit-yew-ational awarenessk I ever seed. But 'e needsk someone to watch 'is back. I kin cover him mosk o' da places he goes..." He paused and Asquith could have sworn he almost looked shy. Shy? Ulrich?
"But 'e can't alwaysk take a bodyguard wit' 'im. You, now. . ." He paused and smiled—a very small, very nasty smile, but a smile nonetheless. "But you goesk wit' 'im most places. So, da better ya doesk, da better da oddsk are my captaink has some backup wut might keepsk 'im alife.
"So, I seen hows yer shootink an' yer pretty good at it. Yer fask, yer accurate, 'n yer monksk dewink good too." Ulrich's monkey eeped quietly in agreement, without interrupting the steady juggling of its dagger from hand to hand to hand. His parrotlet, bobbing happily on the monkey's shoulder, echoed the sentiment.
"But ya gotsk ta git some sit-yew-ational awarenessk. So's I gotsk just da' t'ing fer it." He held up a leather strap, then folded it in half, put a small stone in it, and swung it rapidly in the air.
Something wizzed past Asquith's ear. He spun and looked, and there was a large ragged hole in the target, next to the small group of holes his bullets had made. He spun back to look at Ulrich.
Ulrich smirked malevolently. "So'sk yew'n yer monk 'r gonna keep on practicink, but I'm gonna add sumpthink. I'm gonna be shootink at ya wif dis liddle slink. So'sk if'fn yer monk ain't payink attention, yer gonna git hurt."
Asquith stared at him aghast. "Ulrich, have you completely lost whatever tiny bit of mind you possessed! If my monkey's loading my pistols he can't be looking at you, and those rocks hitting my head are liable to kill me! I know that Brother Theo says what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but killing me won't make me stronger! And I am not going to be a bodyguard for Melville! I'm just shooting for the fun of it!"
Ulrich flat out laughed (something the entire crew would have been shocked to know he was even capable of) and said, "Naw, dese won'k kill ya! I gotsk some 'o da dumplinsk 'at Jones made fer ta lieutenant an' ta Guldur. Dese'll jist git yer attention! An' yer monk don't needsk ta see ta reload. Li'l sucker gotsk hands ta spare, ya see?
"So yew jist keep shootink. Yer monk'll watch yer back an' reload. 'E's jist gotsk ta practice it, ya see?
"An' yeah ya ain'k no bodyguard. Ya ain'k gotsk da eye fer it!" he added, smirking at the reference to Asquith's single eye. "But ya might be jist a mite bedder'n nuthink."
Asquith thought about it, ignoring Ulrich completely as he did. He turned and looked over the side at the vastness of two-space hanging in widespread panorama around him. His monkey eeked for his attention, and when Asquith looked at it, it nodded its head and flourished its belaying pin in one set of hands and a bullet and ramrod in another pair.
Asquith smiled and scratched its head gently. "So, little man, you think we should learn this as well, hmm?" He turned back to face Ulrich and his monkey again, catching sight of an anxious look on the coxswain's face before it changed back to the vicious leer he was used to seeing. God help me, the man is serious! Asquith thought.
"All right, you sawed-off psychopath, let's get on with it! If you're going to ruin my morning of shooting to teach us a new trick we might as well do it right!"
"Aye, 'ats da spirik!" said Ulrich. "Give a man a fishk, an' 'e'll eat fer a day. Teachk 'im ta fight, an' 'e'll feast on da meaty marrow of hisk foes fer a lifetime!" Ulrich smirked as Asquith tried to digest this morsel of psychotic wisdom. Then the coxswain's hand blurred forward launching a dumpling at Asquith. "Crack!" resounded from the belaying pin in his monkey's hands as it screeched loudly in surprise.
"What in hell!" Asquith screamed, shocked and surprised that Ulrich had launched a dumpling at his head the moment he agreed. Dumpling hell! he thought. That's a rock, I don't care what Broadax thinks! Then he was even more surprised to find that he had a pistol in his right hand. But his final and most significant surprise was to find that his pistol had been smacked aside and that damned muzzle was screwed onto his nose again.
"Ya know, yer gettink purdy good at haulink out yer piskol when yer surprisked!" Ulrich praised him. "Jist 'member when yer shootink yer fair game fer me from now on!" he chortled as he sidled back toward his personal empire of laundry piles and pigeon coops.
"I tell you, the man is absolutely bug-nuts crazy!" Asquith whispered to his monkey as he turned back toward his target. The monkey eeked fervently in agreement.
He glanced around and made sure Ulrich was nowhere in sight.
The pistol rose again to the target <<purr!> "Crack!" <<purr!>> "Crack!" followed by a resounding Whack! and an "Eek!" from his monkey.
"Damn it," muttered Asquith, not even bothering to look, "this is going to take some getting used to." His monkey muttered quietly in agreement. Where was that crazy coxswain? He glanced around again, still not seeing the man or his monkey.
The rest of the morning continued on in the same way, punctuated by the sound of gunfire, resounding Whacks! and the occasional "Owww!" followed by an apologetic "Eep."
As Asquith could attest, the acquisition of a new skill, no matter how laudable, could involve considerable pain, not to mention the odd knot on the head!
"What doesn't kill us makes us stronger, huh?" he muttered resentfully. <<purr!>> "Crack!" <<purr!>> "Crack!"
"That man is nuts!"
"Eep!" replied his monkey in fervent agreement.
A typical visit was their stop at DunFoundIt!
DunFoundit! was the dull runt of a sickly litter of ports. The capital city was DunDidIt! and (according to the port guide) the local cemetery was named DunLostIt! The local citizenry were very insistent that the proper pronunciation and spelling did include the exclamation point.
As they approached the Pier a one-masted lugger, laying proud claim to a solitary 12-pounder and crewed by militia men, approached in a somewhat uncertain fashion.
"Personally, I think they're drunk!" Fielder said in a musing tone.
"Drunk, hmmm? Truth to tell, I think I'd prefer that to what I fear is the real culprit," Melville responded sadly.
"Incompetence combined with lack of practice?" Fielder hazarded a guess.
A sigh. "I do believe so," Melville responded glumly. "I know they're focused on survival and making the planet's development profitable, but is it too much to ask for them to at least spend some time drilling in two-space? Or at least to find someone reasonably competent to drive the boat?"
Initially, Melville, Fielder, Westminster, Valandil, Lady Elphinstone, Brother Theo, and Asquith would be the only members of the crew going down to the surface of DunFoundIt! (The rest of the Fangs would take their liberty after this advance party had made the necessary coordination.) Brother Theo and Asquith went as the representatives of the mercantile elements, while Fielder and Melville were the embodiment of the political and military forces. The rangers were responsible for groundside security of the team, and for coordination with the local representatives of the Corps of Rangers. And Elphinstone had to certify the medical safety of the port before the crew was released for their liberty.
All were armed with black powder, muzzle-loading pistols and the rangers had their double-barreled rifles—which were the most complex weapons that could be transported in two-space. Everyone but the Sylvan surgeon carried a straight-bladed sword, with the edge enhanced by two-space conditions. While they didn't expect problems, they always tried to foresee potential difficulties and have a solution handy. And one problem that mankind has managed to bring with him, wherever he went, was mankind himself. Humanity had in itself the seeds for both the noble and the criminal, and grew great quantities of each wherever it was planted.
Their monkeys rode comfortably on their shoulders, with the exception of Brother Theo's monkey, who liked to ride in the hood of his robe, stretching out its neck so that it appeared to be a natural extension off to the side of the monk's head. For some reason, this innocent pastime tended to have an extremely disconcerting effect upon persons negotiating with Brother Theo.
When Piers were established from two-space, they almost always came out on high ground. In this case, as they came down the ladder from two-space the party found themselves atop a large, sparsely wooded hill that provided a vast, arid panorama in every direction.
The jaded sailors may have yearned for something more exciting than an endless series of one-Pier worlds, but even the most world-weary soul always felt a flush of exhilaration upon landing on a new world. This was a whole world, with endless possibilities! Around every corner or over the next hill there might be alien civilizations, ancient ruins, deposits of gold or unknown gems, exotic animals, and wonders of nature that no man had ever seen. And there was nothing but horseback and a man's own hind-legs available to travel across the uncharted distances of an entire planet. It would not be completely explored for centuries, and sometimes the urge to strike out into the unknown was almost overwhelming.
The port was built around the Pier. Despite being an apparently busy place, there were exactly eight buildings in sight, complete with one road that came up out of the woods, dead-ending in front of the largest structure, a warehouse of some sort. The port master, also the postmaster, manager of the general store and apparently also the local publisher, mayor, librarian, bartender, and chronic overachiever was named Jack Beech. He was happy to see them, and delighted to receive the latest news and magazines. He was also overjoyed at the chance to purchase a copy of Asquith's book and the publishing rights thereof.
Business was quickly concluded and a bag of letters was passed on to the postmaster, who promptly cried out to the crowd of locals, "We DunGotMail!" Then the contingent from the Fang departed to ensure cargo was transferred smoothly, liberty was administered fairly, and revictualing and rewatering were completed before getting underway to the next little one-Pier world.
The transfer of goods up and down the Pier could have been expedited by using Fangs instead of the idlers who appeared around the dock area once the announcement of an inbound Ship had spread, but that would have been bad for relations, and maintaining good relations with frontier worlds was the whole purpose of their visit. Thus, locals were used for all groundside tasks, under the supervision of harried Fangs.
One of the keys to the long-term success of Westerness was providing properly trained, maintained, and led military personnel to establish a stable and loyal presence in each newly acquired region. Much of this occurred at the officer level, with Westerness Naval Academy graduates like Flavius Cerialis, who commanded DunFoundIt!'s solitary, one-masted, two-space Ship. Flavius exemplified the acculturation of the elites of the frontier fringe regions who had much to gain from acceptance and compliance with Westerness' suzerainty.
Flavius and his wife, Susanna, hosted Melville, his first officer, and his surgeon for dinner. This provided an opportunity for the Fang's leaders to partake of local delicacies (such as they were) and exchange information at a social level. The local naval officer also served as the Westerness planetary agent, and he had one lonely marine corporal to help him out. The corporal and his wife also joined them at dinner.
Flavius was a much harried and harassed officer who was profoundly embarrassed by his Ship's performance during the exchange of salutes. In the course of their conversation he took the opportunity to explain that it was currently the prime season for hunting the local musk deer, which was a key source of meat and hides, and a major export product. His regular crew of DunFoundit! reservists had all taken leave during this time, and he was trying to train some members of a backup crew.
Ordinarily Flavius' little Ship would be bouncing back and forth between the local planets, working in concert with the one Ship that every other Pier could boast locally, in order to provide communication and trade between the local planets and their nearest hub-world, Podkayne. But Flavius had no intention of going anywhere with his current crew, so he was able to extend the courtesy of his home to the visitors. The rest of the Fangs had an opportunity to purchase home-cooked meals while they were dirtside, but it was usually a bit of a slop-house conducted on a large scale by local wives, and few would enjoy the pleasure of a leisurely meal like this.
Flavius and his wife were excited to know that the Fang had brought in Asquith's book along with the latest magazines—bestsellers usually being slow to arrive. Literature and culture were vitally important to the infinitely diverse and wildly varied worlds of Westerness.
They also leaned heavily on the local library of classic science fiction that was provided by the government. A wise man once said that, "Books are the compasses and telescopes and sextants and charts which other men have prepared to help us navigate the dangerous seas of human life." And science fiction was the instrument that had been specifically prepared to navigate the dangerous seas and distant planets of two-space.
"Every planet has its own brand of challenges," said Flavius, "and over every hill or across every river there is a chance that we will run into something new. The old sci-fi books tried to consider every possibility and provide possible solutions. They don't so much tell you what to do. They tell you how to think! And believe me, that's more important. And there are lots of other great nuggets to mine from these old classics.
"For example," continued Flavius excitedly, "many arid frontier worlds like this one have established farms based on a model presented by one of the ancient science fiction masters. On worlds like this, hardwood is extremely rare and expensive. But land is cheap and irrigation can be done if you are willing to work hard. So, many settlers dream big and plan for the generations.
"You see this table we're sitting at? This is real cherry wood. It's worth six months' pay for the average person here. A local rancher paid his taxes with this table! The price of hardwood is fabulous, since it takes decades to grow."
"So, you plant forests?" asked Melville.
"Yep. But not just any forest, sir!" They were both lieutenants, and Melville was actually junior in time-in-grade as a lieutenant, but the local officer insisted on calling Melville "sir." "This is a forest that will pay for itself as it grows. Drip irrigation is the best way to wet down a forest in a desert. You run a thin line to each tree, and give it just the right amount of water to thrive. Not only does it use less water than other methods, but it's cheaper to install and it stops the development of undergrowth, which pretty much ends the danger of forest fires.
"But these are very special, well planned forests. You see, most temperate hardwoods produce fruits, nuts, or edible seeds. What's more, they usually produce more edible calories per hectare per year than the same land would produce if it was sown with wheat or corn. Some fruits come in the spring time, like cherries. Others ripen in the summer and others, like apples and acorns, drop in the fall. By carefully selecting the type and number of trees, just the right amount of food is falling all the time to feed and raise five pigs per hectare per year within about seven years. Many more than that as the forest gets mature. And they do 'fall' when they are good and ripe. You don't have to pick anything except some of the fruit that you might want for yourself. Hogs are slaughtered in the fall, leaving a prize boar and enough older sows around to get the herd going for the next year. Pigs reproduce quickly, and are ready for the butcher in half a year if you feed them well. You see? It's all automatic and self-sustaining, except for having to feed your winter stock."
"So, thou hast found the sure path to easy living!" said Lady Elphinstone with a knowing smile.
"No, milady," replied Flavius, returning her smile shyly. "As I'm sure you know, 'There ain't no such thing as a free lunch.' Except for paradise worlds, you have to work and work hard for your food. This is just a clever way to get the most payoff for your efforts, and to leave a legacy of incredibly valuable hardwood to your grandchildren. In addition to maintaining the irrigation, you have to worry about predators, insect infestation, bird flocks, and a dozen other things that can go wrong. Of course the predator pelts are worth good money when you kill them, and you can usually eat the birds you have to kill, so there's always an upside for a hard working, straight shooting, brave, industrious pioneer.
"Another example of culture drawn from the classics is our plan for property tax assessment. On planets using this law every land owner is required to figure out what he thinks his land is worth, and submit that figure to the Land Index. Then he is taxed, based on his own evaluation. Then, if somebody makes an honest offer to buy the land at that price, he either has to sell it, or to increase his evaluation by at least five percent. The great thing about this system is that it completely eliminates the need for government appraisers, and all of the expense, fraud, and corruption that they naturally entail.
"Every single piece of property, from buildings to wilderness land, and everything in between, has a description written up on it in the index, which is maintained at the real estate brokers' expense. Failing to pay your taxes for three years results in your land being automatically sold to the highest bidder. That saves the government the cost of a lot of tax collectors."
"Ha!" said Fielder, raising his glass. "I'm all for that. The least government is the best government as far as I'm concerned."
"Amen to that," replied their host. "But you always need someone like me and my boys to deal with the two-legged predators here in the town and the port. And you need people like our Corps of Rangers who deal with all kinds of predators, and ever'thing else, out in the outback."
Along with the Westerness Navy and the Army's Corps of Discovery, the Corps of Rangers was the third and perhaps the most elite arm of Westerness' armed forces. (The marines were considered to be a "department" of the Navy. The "men's department," as the marines would say.) The Navy, the Corps of Discovery and the rangers worked together to create the desire, and they helped to satisfy the desire, of a "westering kingdom."
On DunFoundIt! the rangers were personified by Nathaniel Bumper and his partner, John Foy, who had invited the Fang's two rangers, and any guests they wanted to bring, to a local farmhouse for dinner.
The rangers' weathered faces were tanned to mahogany and their hair was bleached from forgotten suns. They were trainers, county extension agents, protectors, marshals, leaders, and legends. Westminster and Valandil had invited Brother Theo and Asquith to accompany them. They had also invited several of the middies to join them, because telling tall tales and expostulating wisely was much more fun when there were young folks to hear and admire it all.
After a good meal provided by a local farmer and his wife, the four rangers, Brother Theo, Asquith, the midshipmen, and their hosts sat back to enjoy cigars and sip some of the local hard cider. The conversation naturally turned to worlds they had seen.
"Some are rich, with great natural wealth," said Ranger Foy. "And some are barren and rocky. Take Union, where oil flows plentifully from their native soil to go forth and feed the wheels of industry. On the other hand we have Borax, where bare rocks stare insolently at the arriving colonist with an almost spoken dare, 'Get a living from these stones, if you can!'"
"Yep," said old Natty Bumper. "One thing all worlds have in common, though. If there's life, there's a food chain. An' where there's a food chain, there's an alpha predator that humans have ta fight. Always there's the battle for survival. An' we humans are the greatest survivors the universe has ever seen!" Then he added with a leathery old grin, "With the possible exception of the cockroach, of course."
"Aye," said Brother Theo. "As our captain would put it:
"And life is colour and warmth and light,
And a striving evermore for these;
And he is dead who will not fight;
And who dies fighting has increase.
"The fighting man shall take from the sun
Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth;
Speed with the light-foot winds to run,
And with the trees to newer birth;
And find, when fighting shall be done,
Great rest, and fullness after dearth.
"The blackbirds sing to him, 'Brother, brother,
If this be the last song you shall sing,
Sing well, for you may not sing another;
Brother, sing.'"
"Hooah! Well said," responded Foy with a nod.
"So, Natty," asked Westminster, "are you having any luck getting these farmers and pioneers to maintain the warrior spirit?"
"It's always a battle," replied the old ranger. You know, jist last week I heard someone say they was a vegetarian!" Looking over at Midshipman Hayl, the grizzled old ranger asked, "Do you know what a vegetarian is, son?" As the boy was opening his mouth to answer the ranger said, "It's an old American Indian word that means 'bad hunter!' Next thing ya know, we'll have vegans here! Tha's another old Indian word. It means, 'useless bastard can't even milk a cow!'"
Natty smiled and joined in the laughter, and then he got deadly serious.
"Complacency is always the greatest predator. It kills off the two-legged grass-eaters ever' time. No sooner do ya clear out most of the werebeasts and jackwolves, an' some damned fool will stop carryin' 'is rifle, an' next thing ya know he's dead. I guess it's a good thing there's always somethin' to play Darwin an' take the stupid ones outa the gene pool. God knows how bad it will git when we kill off all the predators and the sheepeople begin to thrive. 'At's when I'll be movin' on to the next world."
"Aye," said Brother Theo. "Cogito, ergo armatum sum: I think, therefore I am armed."
There was a mixed chorus of "Amen" and "Hooah!" in response to that, as the monk continued.
"It's always been that way. Take the case of Massachusetts. In 1636 an exasperated General Court of the Massachusetts Bay Colony unanimously passed an ordinance that said..." Then the monk took a sip of his drink and began to recite from memory.
"'Whereas many complaints have been made to this Court, of the greatest neglect of all sorts of people of using the lawful and necessary means for their safety, especially in this time of so great danger from Indians, it is therefore ordered that no person shall travel above one mile from his dwelling without arms; upon pain of twelvepence for every default.'"
Theo took another sip and continued thoughtfully, "It is interesting that going unarmed was scornfully referred to as neglectful. Protecting oneself was not just a personal responsibility, it was a duty to the community! A community that needed the contributions of every able-bodied person. In fact, for over a century after the danger from hostile Indians was eliminated, there was no suggestion that this ordinance be repealed. A century-and-a-half later, those people were the leaders of the armed rebellion that created the United States!
"But, alas, two centuries after the revolution, Americans living in that same place were denied the right to carry firearms in self-defense! They were required to depend completely upon uncaring and inept bureaucrats for personal protection, and nearly every other necessity of life. Those were dark decades when helpless citizens were brutally murdered, and neighbors and bureaucrats alike just yawned and went about their business as if nothing had happened. Citizens were of so little value, they were considered expendable!"
"Damnfool sheep!" muttered old Natty.
"Aye," continued Theo. "You know, the Massachusetts state motto was, 'By the sword we seek peace.' Two centuries later they were denied the right to self-defense! Their ancestors would rightly think they had lost their senses!"
"Any sane citizen would think the same!" said Foy. "But," he sighed, "how quickly we forget."
"I'm not much up on history," said Natty, "but mah partner, Ranger Foy here, is a gen-u-ine history buff. Tell 'em what ya was tellin' me the other day, John."
"Well," began Foy after a long hard drink of his cider, "At about the time the original thirteen United States adopted their new constitution in 1787, Alexander Tyler, a Scottish history professor at the University of Edinburg, had this to say about the fall of the Athenian republic some two-thousand years prior:
"'A democracy is always temporary in nature; it simply cannot exist as a permanent form of government. A democracy will continue to exist up until the time that voters discover that they can vote themselves generous gifts from the public treasury. From that moment on, the majority always votes for the candidates who promise the most benefits from the public treasury, with the result that every democracy will finally collapse over loose fiscal policy, which is always followed by a dictatorship.
"'The average age of the world's greatest civilizations from the beginning of history, has been about two-hundred years. During those two-hundred years, these nations always progressed through the following sequence:
-From bondage to spiritual faith;
-From faith to great courage;
-From courage to liberty;
-From liberty to abundance;
-From abundance to complacency;
-From complacency to apathy;
-From apathy to dependence;
-From dependence back into bondage.'
"So," continued Foy, "Westerness, as a constitutional monarchy, can avoid apathy and dependence as long as we're faced with a great challenge. The challenge of expansion has kept us fairly stable. Our current growth seems to be in place as a self-perpetuating process. A frontier spirit of independence and self-reliance has been made possible, with expansion being encouraged and perpetuated because it can bring great wealth and prosperity. This kind of process can only happen in a free market, in a society with a high degree of liberty, such as a republic or a constitutional monarchy like ours.
"Others would disagree, and they may have a point, but the way I see it, we must avoid becoming a pure democracy, or mob rule, and we need to institutionalize our frontier spirit. Our 'Right of Self-Defense' and 'Right of the Individual Citizen to Keep and Bear Arms' are enshrined in our Constitution, and it's damned hard for anyone to twist that around!"
"Well said!" replied Brother Theo. "May it ever be so! Gentlemen, I give you a toast. A toast to be drunk with home brew on a frontier world. To the fundamental right of all free men. The right that keeps them free. The right that sustains all other rights: the Right of Self-Defense, and the Right of the Individual Citizen to Keep and Bear Arms!"
"Hooah!" chorused the four rangers. "Aye!" said the middies. And, "Damned straight!" said the farmer and his wife with curt nods.
Cuthbert Asquith XVI was too busy jotting it all down to say anything.
Before they left there was always the Dance.
Small communities could sometimes be quite blatant about their desire to pick up some fresh material for the local gene pool from passing Ships. Larger communities were more subtle about this, sometimes even functioning at the subconscious level, but there were plenty of females of childbearing age to be bedded practically every night, on almost every planet, by most male crew members, if they were willing. The peak of this mating ritual was the Dance.
It was usually held in a barn, with local musicians, lots of local home brew, and plenty of alien, exotic versions of dark corners, hay lofts, sandy dunes, grassy meadows, mossy glades, and cabins that just happened to be empty that night. The women were seldom beautiful, and "childbearing age" stretched well past the years that some would consider to be the peak of feminine beauty; but they were willing, and so were most of the Fangs. There was always plenty of locally produced alcoholic lubricants available, and, as Fielder put it, "Beauty is in the eye of the beer holder."
Melville was a terrible dancer, and he was sincerely disgusted by his failure in this social grace. He couldn't understand why his skills with the sword in the "dance of death" didn't apply to the ballroom—or the barn dance, as the case may be. With a sword in his hand he glided like a trout. On the deck of a Ship in a boarding action he was a graceful human whirlwind with a glittering steel limb. On the dance floor the best he could manage was a slow, clumsy box step or an occasional leisurely waltz. Anything else was a recipe for social disaster and public humiliation. Usually after a few dances he would retreat to his Ship.
While enjoyable in and of itself, the process of holding so many women reminded him of how far short they fell of his standard of womankind—his beloved Glaive, the Sylvan princess he had left behind on Osgil. Most basically asked the same question: "What are the fashionable ladies wearing in Westerness this season?"
Melville had absolutely no idea. Even if he had been on Westerness, he probably wouldn't have noticed. He could tell them something about what was popular on Earth, and he blushed thinking of "In Heat" drugs, body paint, bustier options, and his dance partner with "all that yummy anatomy hanging down." His answer was always, "Oh they are generally wearing something in gingham, off the shoulders, in bright prints with matching fan. Why, much the same as you are wearing, now that I think upon it." This answer always seemed to serve well, pleasing his dance partners wonderfully.
His first officer fielded the same question with an entirely different stock response. "Oh, they are showing much more décolletage this year," Lt. Fielder would say with a disarming smile. "Very low cut and daring. I must say, it would look good on you." Somehow, Fielder's brazen lack of conscience gave him an odd sort of charm. His partners certainly seemed to love it.
Lt. Fielder never came back to the Ship early.
The trip through the "smallness" of Westerness seemed interminable at times. From DunFoundIt! to GetLost, passing through HomeAtLast, Friday, First and Second Foundation, Dreamland, El Dorado, Enigma, and Knight's Tale, the list of worlds seemed endless at times.
Brother Theo's ingenuity in the trade arena was often stretched. But his creativity in keeping his midshipmen productively employed and out of mischief was even more frequently strained.
Theo had never been one to waste talent when it came to making sure his middies knew how to keep their young selves alive. The lecture this day was being conducted by Gunny Von Rito and Mr. Hans on the subject of knives, swords, and other sharp pointy objects.
"Young gentlemen," Theo said, and then looked around at the supposedly industrious members of the crew who were "working" in the near vicinity of his lecture on the upper waist. "And you various other idlers, layabouts, gadabouts, roustabouts, wastrels, sots, and other sorts who are eavesdropping on this lecture. Which leads me to digress and wonder why I haven't seen all of you at my Sunday morning services? It's apparent that it isn't the sound of my voice acting as a sedative.
"In any case," he continued, "today's lecture comes in two parts. In the initial portion, I have the pleasure to introduce the theory, and in the second part, Gunnery Sergeant Von Rito and Mr. Hans, both extremely well-versed in the art of the knife, will help you to begin your lessons in close-and-dirty knife fighting. And Grenoble, the captain's bodyguard, kindly on loan from the King of Osgil, will help with some unique Sylvan aspects of the art.
"These fine gentlemen have consented to assist me since, while the Lord has gifted me with some few accomplishments," and he folded his hands over his rounded belly and smiled cherubically, "I freely admit that my experiences in close combat are limited to wrestling with temptation!"
"An' who wins, eh?" came a voice from the mainmast.
"Ah, young Thompson," called back Brother Theo as his monkey eeped cheerfully, "I admit to struggling with temptation, but then the Lord put us here to struggle, did he not?
"In any case," he continued good naturedly, "the first illusion and temptation you must conquer is the delusion which would lead you to believe that a gun or a pistol will always triumph over the knife!
"This illusion is one that has killed countless people across the centuries. They assume (notice that lovely word 'assume' which makes an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me' whenever you use it!) that their firearm is a magic wand which will cause others to freeze and obey their every command, that the mere threat of use is enough to cause compliance in their opponent.
"This same mind-set produced the derisive phrase 'bringing a knife to a gunfight' with the implication that you are overmatched in every case. But researchers in the late twentieth century, in the early days of the Warrior Renaissance, found that a knifeman who began within twenty feet of his opponent was frequently successful! Even though the person being attacked had a firearm at the ready!"
Brother Theo paused in his pacing at the center of the group. "Why was the knifeman successful against the gunman? Does anyone have an inkling? Or are you all practicing your naps for Sunday morning?" he grinned at the midshipmen cheerfully. His monkey propped its head on top of Brother Theo's as it looked around as well.
Midshipman Hayl spoke up quietly, "The OODA loop, sir?" he ventured.
"Excellent, Mr. Hayl! Excellent! The OODA loop, which for those of you who don't remember is the short form for the Observation, Orientation, Decision, and Action loop! When something happens, when the fecal matter impacts the rotating oscillator, as it were, first you see it! You Observe it! Then you have to figure out what it is, what is happening, you have to Orient yourself! After that, you have to Decide what to do about it! And finally, you must Act!
"And while you are processing this OODA loop, you are burning up time! The one resource no one can replace! You are wasting time, and as Napoleon said, "Ask of me anything but time!" And then right in the middle of your loop, something changes! So the loop starts again. You start over again at Observe... And right about then, your finger still on the trigger, you observe a foot of cold steel has now become intimate friends with your belly button.
"And you die!
"Which is why we went from laughing at someone who brought a knife to a gunfight and started taking him or her seriously. And that, young sirs, is why we exercise you to the edge of your endurance in learning how to respond to every manner of attacks! So that when you face an opponent in a fast-moving, rough-and-tumble, life-and-death encounter, they die instead of you! Because your mind isn't even in the loop! You will respond and react on reflex, on muscle memory, not thought!
"It has been pointed out that grapplers, or wrestlers, make an art out of closing distance, clinching and wrestling. It's a smart game plan, because eliminating distance greatly diminishes an opponent's ability to effectively retrieve and employ guns. Punches and kicks are also diminished in potency when bodies are in contact.
"But Saint Farnam, writing in the early twenty-first century, pointed out that the nemesis for grapplers is a blade. Even when bodies are in contact, an opponent can efficiently retrieve and use a blade on a grappler, even a good one. Conversely, pistols are less likely to be retrieved and used effectively in the clinch.
"Against such an attack a potential victim may be able to use a blade more effectively than a pistol, at least initially. An attacker is less likely to notice a blade in the victim's hand than he would a gun. Even after the attacker has been made (painfully) aware of the fact that his victim has a blade, disarming him or her is nearly impossible. Levering a pistol out of someone's grip is much easier. A gun is only dangerous in one direction!
"When opponents separate, a pistol comes into its own, and a blade diminishes in usefulness. Think of a blade as something we can use quickly to get the attacker off of us and out of physical contact. When we have thus separated from him and gained distance, we can then utilize our pistol to prevent him from closing the distance once more.
"The best use for a blade is when you have one—preferably concealed—and your attacker doesn't know it until it is employed. When it is employed, he will probably be more than happy to separate, after which you can default to your pistol.
"And now, I leave you in the capable hands of the Gunny and Mr. Hans for lots and lots of lovely, loving practice." Brother Theo bestowed one last, kindly smile upon them and moved to the side.
Old Hans moved to the center of the circle and grinned nastily. "Well, young gennulmans, the Gunny an' I ain't Acadermy trained, but we is sorta good at our trade, which is stayin' alive an' makin' sure them that fight agin' us don't! So we're gonna help you boys ta figger out how ta stay alive inna clinch." He and his monkey both spat a brown stream of tobacco juice over the rail.
He chuckled evilly and continued. "I don' think you boys is gonna enjoy it much. An' speaking of things people ain't gonna enjoy..." He looked up at the yardarm over the circle and called out, "Thompson, ya wise-ass! Git yer butt down here. We needs a trainin' dummy, an' you proved yer qualerfy fer the job by mouthin' off ta' Brother Theo!"
The only reply was a smothered "Oh hell," as Thompson slid down a line to the deck.
And thus they trained and trained across the endless days. Not just midshipmen, but gun crews, topmen, and every other member of the Fang's crew trained at every conceivable combat task. The middies would sometimes protest, and most often it was Grenoble who would answer.
"I have been studying thy history, and it tells us why thou must train. A proverb from thy ancient Chinese tells us, 'to chop a tree quickly, spend twice the time sharpening your ax.' In 404 B.C., Thucydides wrote in The History of the Peloponnesean Wars, that 'true safety was to be found in long previous training and not in eloquent exhortations uttered when they went into action.' Almost two and a half millennia later, thy Field Marshall Rommel told us that 'the best form of welfare for the troops is first-class training.' See? 'Tis thy welfare we are seeking! We want only what is best for thee. So sweat and suffer, little brothers! 'Tis good for thee!"
"But, every day, sur?" asked Midshipman Jubal. "Do we have to do it every day?"
"Thou sluggard! Thou hast most Saturdays and a good portion of Sunday off. What more couldst thou ask? An ancient samurai master told his student, 'You must concentrate upon and consecrate yourself wholly to each day, as though a fire were raging in your hair.'"
"Mah whole body feels lahk it's on fire!" Jubal muttered.
"Cogitate upon it from this perspective," added Brother Theo helpfully. "Life is like the parable of the carrot and the donkey. You can see the carrot, but pull as you might you can never reach it. The secret to enjoying life is to learn to love pulling the cart. Now, again, from the top!"
"Great job," whispered Midshipman Lao Tung to Jubal as they started the knife drill again. "Now my hair is on fire, my carrot's forever out of reach, and my damned brain hurts just thinking about all them proverbs and stuff!"
But still they trained.
There were no great centers of civilization to partake of. No streets of bars and brothels, no stores packed with merchandize, no vast array of restaurants and vendors. But on each world there was at least one place to buy wholesome, homemade meals that were cheerfully sold for desperately needed cash. And some worlds had something different and exciting to offer. Occasionally the sun was brighter, or the animals were more colorful, or the vegetation greener, or the beaches whiter. Some worlds had exotic native food and animals, or unique souvenirs to treasure for a lifetime.
And some worlds—indeed, most worlds—had, as old Hans put it, "Ab-so-lutly nuthin' ta commend 'em."
But finally, it was done.
After their last one-Pier world, as they were headed into Show-Low, the captain invited his officers to dinner. At the end of a good meal the consensus was that the crew was content, and it was good to go for a while without anyone trying to kill you. A man could get used to this!
"It isn't as boring as sailing across the rift," concluded Melville. "No one is trying to sink us, and we do get a warm welcome on each world, such as it is. You have to admit, there is a kind of satisfaction in honest labor, and the crew is settling into it. As the poet said,
"Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
O sweet content!
Art thou rich, yet in thy mind perplex'd?
O punishment!...
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face..."
"Aye," replied Lady Elphinstone. "'Tis pleasant. 'Tis 'sweet content' indeed. But I fear 'twill not last. Peace is not thy lot, my friends, for thou are not 'souls of clay.' Thou are heroes: the 'sons of the immortals,' the 'souls of fire.' And of thee the Goddess says:
"But to the souls of fire I give more fire,
and to those who are manful
I give a might more than man...
for I drive them forth by strange paths
that they may fight the titans and the monsters
and the enemies of Gods and men."
"Thanks, milady," said Fielder sourly. "Forgive me for saying so, but you really know how to ruin a mood."
She only smiled softly and quoted, "'Tell me now, which sorts of men seem more blessed?'"
And from every Pier they visited, Fang sent forth her message: <<Remember Kestrel... A dark tide of fear and hate comes... Red war comes! Love quenches hate and fear... Remember.>>