Tangled in the cold moon's hair!

Man and beast lay hurt and screaming,

(Men must die when Kings are dreaming)a"

While within the harrowed town

Mothers dragged their children down

As the awful rain came screaming,

For the glory of a crown!

The enemy counterfire became increasingly accurate. The defenders' guns were destroyed. Their crewmen died. Raw civilians filled the gaps and helped man the guns. Women bore ammunition up to the guns. Children carried water to their fathers and brothers.

Melville sighed and shook his head as he watched the defenders respond with shock and anger to their losses. It was as if they couldn't comprehend what their enemy would do to them. As though the reality of death and horror couldn't be grasped until it was upon them.

Early in World War II, back on Old Earth, n.a.z.i Germany launched a series of aerial bombing attacks that became known as the Battle of Britain. These attacks on civilian targets accomplished little except to harden the hearts and steel the resolve of an entire nation, and it was this resolute determination which Churchill embodied in his famous speeches.

Islamic extremists made the same mistake early in the twenty-first century, launching attacks on civilian targets in the United States. These attacks unleashed the vast might of that huge, powerful nation in ways that the terrorists never dreamed possible.

Now the Guldur bombardment of the Ai population centers was having the same result. But the most resolute, determined people in the world could still be defeated. They just made the price higher. So they fought, and they died. And died. And died. Each day, as dusk fell, the ragged, exhausted, sh.e.l.l-shocked defenders wondered how they could survive another night.

It was then that the Honorable Milton Carpetwright chose to call Melville to his office. Closed curtains. No coffee. One question.

"p.i.s.s on golf?" a bemused Melville repeated.

"Yes. That's what he said. My marine detail seemed to think it was funny. Just what did he think he was doing, talking to me that way?"

Melville's brain spun, grasping for a way to communicate the concept. "Sir," he began, "you're from a mid-tech colony of Old Earth, so you may not understand the history behind the phrase. 'p.i.s.s on golf' is a term, a catchphrase, a political slogan. We studied this at the academy. The concept goes back to 1349 when King Edward III of England told the citizens of London that their 'skill of shooting' was being neglected, and he proclaimed that 'every one of the said city, strong in body, at leisure times on holidays, use in their recreation bow and arrows, or pellets or bolts, and learn and exercise the art of shooting . . . that they do not, after any manner apply themselves to the throwing of . . . handball, football, cambuck, or c.o.c.kfighting, nor suchlike vain plays which have nor profit in them.' You see sir, the playing of such 'vain' pursuits is considered to be a sure sign of decadence in most worlds."

"Well," he bl.u.s.tered, "that's ancient history! None of the great leaders of any developed world would ever think that way!"

"Perhaps, sir. But many would consider Teddy Roosevelt to be one of the greatest leaders of the twentieth century, and he said, while he was President, that: 'We should establish shooting galleries in all the large public and military schools, should maintain national target ranges in different parts of the country, and should in every way encourage the formation of rifle clubs throughout all parts of the land . . . It is unfortunately true that the great body of our citizens shoot less and less as time goes on. To meet this [challenge] we should encourage rifle practice . . . by every means in our power. Thus, and not otherwise, may we be able to a.s.sist in preserving the peace of the world. Fit to hold our own against the strong nations of the earth, our voice for peace will carry to the ends of the earth. Unprepared and therefore unfit, we must sit dumb and helpless to defend ourselves, protect others, or preserve peace. The first stepa"in the direction of preparation to avert war if possible, and to be fit for war if it should comea"is to teach our men to shoot.'"

The consul simply sat, with his mouth open, trying to digest this.

"Do you see, sir? In essence, what Teddy Roosevelt and King Edward III are saying is, 'p.i.s.s on golf.' " Melville continued, relentlessly, "most scholars believe that when the population starts playing games with no actual application to survival skills, and when they displace swordsmanship and shooting sports, then that's a certain sign that they have become decayed and are deserving of contempt. That's why, when you asked Ranger Westminster what was his 'secret,' he said the secret was to 'p.i.s.s on golf.' It might overstate the position for rhetorical purposes, but that honestly is the standard answer. If you spend most of your time and energy on such pursuits, then in the minds of many people, it is a waste of human talent."

"Well," said the little man with a self-deprecating smile and a wave of his hand, "in my case, I have so little talent when it comes to golf that I'm not really wasting all that much." For just a moment Melville found himself liking the diplomat, as he continued earnestly, "Do people really think that way? Do they think that we are decayed and worthy of contempt if we aren't into shooting or fencing?"

"Well sir, there is nothing wrong with any sport, but if you spend most of your leisure time and take inordinate pride in these trivial sports then, perhaps, yes. And if your culture considers these 'vain sports' to be a higher good, while suppressing or deprecating the skills that contribute to a society's survival, then yes, across the galaxy such a world is subject to a degree of contempt. You think the Stolsh, or Sylvan, or any other major society respect you when you take them out on the golf course? The truth is just the opposite. Anyway, sir, let us hope the Stolsh have been living by that standard, because very soon now, our survival will depend upon the shooting skills of the average Stolsh militia member."

So the morning flung her cloak

Through the hanging pall of smokea"

Trimmed with red, it was, and dripping with

a deep and angry stain!

And the day came walking then

Through a lane of murdered men,

And the light fell down before her like

a cross upon the plain!

But the forts still crowned the height

With a bitter iron crown!

They had lived to flame and fight,

They had lived to keep the Town!

And they poured their havoc down

All that day . . . and all that night . . .

Each morning when the dazed defenders looked out at the swarming, teeming enemy they felt despair, yet still they fought. One night the enemy finally succeeded in gaining a major bridgehead across the river, a salient that couldn't be dislodged, and the Guldur began to work their way up the slopes. Now vast numbers of hastily trained riflemen and musketeers manned the ramparts and added their fire to the withering barrages that swept down the bluffs. Yet still the enemy advanced.

So they stormed the iron Hill,

O'er the sleepers lying still,

And their trumpets sang them forward through the dull succeeding dawns,

But the thunder flung them wide,

And they crumpled up and died,

They had waged the war of monarchsa"and they died the death of p.a.w.ns.

The sailorsa"Stolsh, Sylvan and Westernessa"spent most of their time on board their ships waiting for any possible attack upon the Pier. They were under orders to stay out of the ground battle. They wouldn't tip the balance much on the ground. Barely trained militia could man the ramparts almost as well as a sailor.