"That's where that came from?" said Tibbits, the carpenter, as he finished off his dessert. "I always thought it was because, during real hard times, when we didn't 'ave any food, sometimes momma used to make us eat dirt."

" 'Eat dirt,' mumbled Asquith in fascinated horror as he jotted down more notes, then he continued. "The wealthy have slate floors that get slippery when they're wet, especially in the winter, so you scatter leftover stems of grain, called 'thresh,' on the floor to help keep your footing. As the winter goes on, you keep adding more thresh until when you open the door it can all start slipping outside. So a piece of wood is placed in the entranceway, hence, a 'thresh hold.' "

"I wouldn't know about that," said Barlet, their gunnery officer. "We was all too poor to have any of that fancy stuff. How about you, Mr. Fielder, did you have one of them fancy-pants 'threshold' jobbies when you was a kid?"

Fielder wasn't partic.i.p.ating in their game. Lamenting the loss of his .45 auto and keeping a careful eye on Broadax was preoccupying him at the moment. The .45s and BARs were brought on board (couldn't leave them to the enemy!) where they'd quickly become pieces of junk. He found comfort in the double-barreled two-s.p.a.ce pistol tucked into his sash, and never went anywhere without it. In response to the gunner's question Fielder just waved his hand deprecatingly and said, "the bottle stands by you, Mr. Crater," as Asquith continued in his fatuous deconstruction of Westerness civilization.

"I suppose it's also true, as reported by many observers, that you cook in the kitchen with a big kettle that is always hung over the fire. Every day you light the fire and add things to the pot, mostly vegetables and not much meat. Usually you eat stew for dinner, leaving leftovers in the pot to get cold overnight and then start over the next day. Sometimes the stew had food in it that's been there for quite a while. Hence the rhyme, 'peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold, peas porridge in the pot nine days old.' "

"Aye, you've got us on that one," said Tibbits. "Matter o' fact, we do that on board ship here. No telling how long the chow you just et's been cookin'."

Asquith actually shuddered in horror as he looked at his empty plate and continued. "Sometimes you get pork, which makes you feel special. When visitors come over, you hang up the bacon to show off. It's a sign of wealth that a man can 'bring home the bacon.' You cut off a little to share with guests and all sit around and 'chew the fat.' "

"Yep," said old Hans, "Many's the evening we sat around chewing the fat with friends. 'Course, when ya ain't got no fat, we could always chew bark."

"Those with money have plates made of pewter. Did you know that food with a high acid content can cause some of the lead to leach onto the food, causing lead poisoning and death? This happens most often with tomatoes, so I bet you still consider tomatoes to be poisonous."

They looked at each other in mock wonder and horror, sipping their after-dinner wine as they listened.

"Most people don't have pewter plates, but instead they use trenchers, a piece of wood with the middle scooped out like a bowl. Often trenchers are made from stale bread which is so old and hard that it can be used for quite some time. Trenchers are never washed and a lot of times worms and mold get into the wood and old bread. After eating off wormy, moldy trenchers, one would get 'trench mouth.' "

"d.a.m.n," said Tibbits, "that explains it. I'm glad we have high-tech friends like you to enlighten us, Mr. Asquith."

He nodded condescendingly and continued. "Your bread is divided according to status. Workers get the burnt bottom of the loaf, the family get the middle, and guests get the top, or 'upper crust.'

"You see," he continued, "we know all about your 'retroculture' and where it leads. Often lead cups are used to drink ale or whiskey. The combination can sometimes knock people unconscious for days. It's common to mistake such an individual for dead and prepare them for burial. They're laid out on the kitchen table for a couple of days and the family gathers around and eats and drinks and waits to see if they'll wake up. Hence the custom of holding a 'wake.' "

"Aye," said Hans. "I remember when my uncle Bob got in such a state. We thought 'e was a gonner 'til he woke up in the middle o' 'is own wake! Gave us all a start, I tell ya. Then he proceeded ta drink all the likker ever'one brought ta the wake. He said if ya needed the hair o' the dog 'at bit ya fir a hangover, then ya needed the whole d.a.m.n'd hide o' the dog 'at kilt ya!"

"Yes," said Asquith after the laughter died down, "it happens more often than you'd think in your low-tech worlds. We have a report from one area where they dug up coffins to move to a new location. When they reopened these coffins, one out of twenty-five coffins was found to have scratch marks on the inside. They realized that they'd been burying people alive! So that's why you tie a string on the wrist of the corpse, lead it through the coffin and up through the ground and tie it to a bell. Someone would have to sit out in the graveyard all night (this was the 'graveyard shift') to listen for the bell; thus, someone could be either 'saved by the bell' or they're considered a 'dead ringer.' "

All the members of the mess smiled genially as they heard this, but their smiles disappeared when the earthworm continued.

"But the saddest thing about your so-called civilization is this fixation with our long-outdated Earth literature. Especially your infatuation with Jay Tolkien. On Earth we know that he was a kook, a religious fanatic with views and values long since discarded by reasonable people."

Suddenly the members of the mess were deathly quiet. They all set down their silverware or wine gla.s.ses and leaned forward in their chairs, looking intensely at their guest, and cutting glances to Mr. Fielder, waiting for him to say something.

"Sir," began Fielder. "As the president of our little mess, I must tell you that you have gone astray. I respectfully request that you drop the topic, or we will reach the point where your only options are a duel or an apology."

"Apology? What have I got to apologize for? If you people can't handle the truth, that's your problem. You should be apologizing for your sad civilization."

Petreckski shook his head and tried to reason with the earthworm. "We are amused by your application of a witty piece of fifteenth-century Earth history to us. The truth is that our culture is based on a society that is several hundred years more advanced, and the field of hygiene and medicine is the one area where we draw selectively from more advanced cultures. You, from your one sad little world can say whatever you want about our kingdom, spanning thousands of worlds. But sir, when you speak of our respect, nay veneration, of J.R.R. Tolkien, it is like insulting our religion. Religion and politics are topics which gentlemen can agree to disagree about, and set aside from polite conversation. In your ignorance you have gone across the line, and a simple apology will be accepted with a willing spirit."

"Apology? You pathetic bunch of neanderthals! Let me just ask you one thing. So where are the Hobbits? Eh? Where are the d.a.m.ned Hobbits in your little delusion, your cultish fixation! You found an existing situation, overlaid this sad Tolkien template on reality, and convinced yourselves you are living it. Deluding yourselves that it is prophecy, but it's really a self-fulfilling prophecy!"

"Very good, sir," said Fielder leaning back in his chair with a pleasant smile. "Then honor presents no option but a duel. As Robert Heinlein put it, 'An armed society is a polite society.' We are an armed society, and we are a polite society. You of course have choice of weapons. The mess will choose its champion to respond upon the field of honor."

"Duel!? Duel?! I have a life expectancy that's several hundred years long. You think I'm going to risk it in some primitive duel? You can all be d.a.m.ned!"

"Very well," Fielder replied, pointedly leaving the "sir" out this time, his lazy smile still in place. "Then you are no longer welcome in this mess. You can take your meals with the men, but I give you fair warning: try any of this insulting foolishness with them and they will simply thrash you. Now leave, or I will ask the mess steward to throw you out. You are no longer a gentleman, and it is beneath the members of the mess to lay hands upon you. But we will happily ask the steward to do so."

Cuthbert Asquith XVI looked up at the two sailors who materialized beside him, grinning eagerly, looking for any excuse to toss the boorish earthworm out on his ear.

"Yes, I'm leaving," he said, "But I'm going straight to the captain." He stormed out, just as Lady Elphinstone was coming in from making her rounds in sickbay.

"My," she said, "he didn't last long."

Melville was quietly content with his lot in the world. The promised draft of Sylvan topmen were aboard and they were performing admirably, along with the other new crew members they had picked up on Ambergris. Fang had received top priority for a full-scale refitting in a major dockyard, and she was happy. They'd turned a tidy profit in their trading. And, in spite of his sincere efforts to close with the blockading fleet, the enemy had declined his invitation to come out and play. He'd led the evacuation fleet and chased away the Guldur blockade without sc.r.a.ping the smallest patch of paint, or harming so much as a single hair on a single crewman's head.

Sun Tzu, around 500 b.c., said that the ultimate trick in warfare was to defeat your enemy without having to fight them. One of the commentaries several hundred years later said, 'But if you do, who will declare you valorous?' Well, at this point in his life Melville didn't feel the need for someone to declare him valorous. He'd done his best to engage the enemy, and he could find satisfaction in the fact that his crew and pa.s.sengers had come out of danger without harm.

Even his pa.s.sengers weren't a significant problem. The Stolsh refugees were painfully appreciative, and only too happy to oblige any request. In fact, the female members were a bit too eager to please, and Melville kept his marine guards busy keeping the crew and the refugees separated. On a long voyage this would have been awkward, but on a short trip such as this it was little more than a pleasant diversion filled with relatively harmless flirtation. A bit of a preview of what awaited the returning heroes when they finally were given sh.o.r.e leave on Osgil.

Another major source of pleasure for Melville, and for the entire ship, was the state of improved relations on the quarterdeck. Fielder had never shown open disrespect to Melville, but the newfound regard he demonstrated toward the captain since the battle of Ambergris, their walking together and their regular consultations hadn't gone unnoticed. Melville and his first officer also found a mutual delight in trim paintwork, perfectly drawing sails, squared yards, and flemished ropes. After their stay in the Stolsh shipyard, Fang had never in her existence looked better and the two officers took great pride in their beautiful ship. A pride that their crew shared as they sailed trimly in and out and around a vast fleet full of Stolsh and Sylvan admirers.

Of course, there was still one major area in which Fang's captain and her first officer would probably never see eye-to-eye. Melville's delight in his ship's appearance was greatly surpa.s.sed by his zeal for taking the whole beautiful, fragile edifice into righteous combat with an evil and less esthetically inclined enemy, who would do far more than just mar her paint given the opportunity. Needless to say, Fielder strongly disapproved of this sentiment, but in the end Melville was the captain.

Yes, Melville had been content with his world. Until this little roly-poly earthworm came into his office and started

"demanding" things.

He weighed his options carefully. One course of action which he considered seriously was to have Ulrich kill the little toad and have his body slipped quietly overboard. As pleasant as that prospect was, his sense of duty and his common sense both argued against it.

"Sir," he said, with careful, measured tones. "You are a diplomat, and you should understand the need to respect the cultural mores and taboos of those around you. Especially on board a ship, where men are at each other's throats for months on end, such civilities are particularly important. There are many harsh, draconian things we must do at sea, but across the centuries we've found them to be essential to survival. Do you think that you can force them, that you can browbeat them into agreeing with you? Believe me, you cannot. All you can do is to generate greater and greater degrees of animosity every day. Therefore it's a reasonable and cultured compromise simply to agree to leave disagreeable topics alone."

Melville was trying very hard to be reasonable, but he was getting the impression that it wasn't working. Still, he continued, "If you aren't willing to apologize, or to accept the offer of a duel, then your only option is to mess with the crew. Or with the rest of the refugees, who are eating with the men."

"I'm under no obligation to honor the superst.i.tions of a primitive society. And if they don't want to listen to the truth, that's their problem. Civilized men should be able to discuss matters."

"Yes, but if you cannot agree, then civilized individuals respect each other's differences and avoid disagreeable topics. When told that this topic was disagreeable, insulting, and offensive to your messmates, you continued to pursue it. Which is a perfectly acceptable course of action, as long as you're willing to give satisfaction to any offended parties."

"Then be d.a.m.ned to you!" shouted Cuthbert Asquith XVI, as he stalked out of the captain's office.

The ship sailed on, riding herd on a convoy of military and civilian vessels, integrating their new crew members, and training. Always, ever training. Some captains would have their men grumbling at such incessant training drills, but not this crew, and not this captain. They'd learned to love their young captain, as they'd learned to hate their enemy, both emotions forged in the crucible of battle.

Every day they fired weapons great and small, or lowered boats, or conducted contests to set sail. This was just their captain's way, and they loved their captain. QED. The Stolsh and Sylvan warships around them watched, and began to realize that the combat achievements of Fang and her crew were not a fluke.

There was much visiting between ships. The captain's jollyboat was lowered and his c.o.xswain, Ulrich, commanded the crew that took the Fang's officers to dinners on Stolsh and Sylvan ships. These meals were a great pleasure, but most enjoyable of all was when Fang entertained guests. The Fangs all took great pride in their Ship and they loved showing her off to visitors. They grinned in delight when their Stolsh and Sylvan guests shuddered upon feeling the faint tingle of feral energy upon touching her Moss. The crew were particularly pleased when their visitors looked up in wonder at her royals and studdingsails.

Hans saved the spritsail-topsail, royal studdingsails and moonsails for when they needed a burst of speed. Most of the time they swept back and forth, from one end to the other of their vast array of civilian cargo and pa.s.senger ships, constantly alert for Guldur attackers. Their cutters, under the command of their young lieutenants and midshipmen, were active in cross-loading medical supplies and food to refugee ships.

Their surgeon, Lady Elphinstone, was given one of the jollyboats to be used at her discretion. She used it to move about the fleet like an angel of mercy, descending upon those who needed her the most, ably a.s.sisted by Mrs. Vodi and her two corpsmen. By the time they arrived at Osgil, she had visited every single ship, some of them several times, tending to illness and wounds.

Meanwhile their earthworm diplomat sulked and stayed out of the way. Melville worried briefly about what Asquith would say to the amba.s.sador, then he set the matter aside. He was content to live for the moment, and the moment was good.

The young captain again had the topic of civilized behavior brought before him during a meal he was hosting for Lady Elphinstone, his two young lieutenants, the sailing master, the carpenter, the gunner, and his four midshipmen.

The purser's successful trading endeavors had generated enough discretionary cash for the wardroom and the captain to purchase food and luxury items on Ambergris. These items made it possible for the captain and the wardroom to engage in the ritual of inviting each other to meals.

In this case it was a pleasant breakfast with Melville's youngest officers, his warrant officers, and middies. Along with the always agreeable company of Lady Elphinstone, the meal made for a welcome break in the ship's routine. The middies were scrubbed pink and all the guests had their tattered, worn uniforms cleaned and pressed as neatly as possible.

Young midshipman Aquinar brought the matter up. It was pure happenstance that Fielder and Broadax were missing, which provided the opportunity for him to ask his question.

"Sir," he asked, still an innocent young boy in spite of the numerous battles he'd seen, "what is meant by the term, 'a Weber?' "

Melville sopped up the last of his egg yolk with a crust of toast, chewing it and washing it down with a drink of his tea as he thought, then he leaned back in his chair. "First I want you to understand that it's a low term, a term that's impolite to use. It denigrates one of the greatest of the cla.s.sical writers. Men whose works have endured and inspired for centuries, well, such men are far greater beings than we will ever be, and you might as well use the Lord's name as an insult, as far as I am concerned."

"I meant no offense, sir," said the boy, blushing.

"I'm sure that you didn't and no offense is taken. Some people, and I emphasize some, have held that the idea of a great, giant, beautiful female warrior is an abomination. A commercial pandering to the vapid yearning of a portion of the market. A squalid bid to attract female readers. Even if this is true, and I'm not ready to concede it, to denigrate the works of a great author just because one of his most popular characters seems unrealistic, that my friend, is the real abomination. And besides, that's what fiction is all about, an outlet to fulfill your fantasies."

"But sir, is the idea of a great female warrior really so unrealistic?" asked the boy, sincerely confused. "After all, we have Lieutenant Broadax."

"Aye, indeed we do, and here's to her," Melville replied, raising his tea cup in a salute, "one of the greatest warriors I've ever had the privilege to know. The point is, I guess, that there are great female warriors out there. And they can make significant, unique contributions. But they're seldom beautiful, especially not the ones from high gravity worlds. At least they aren't beautiful in the traditional sense. Whatever youthful beauty they might have had fades quickly. Even a woman bears the scars of battle. And they are c.u.mulative."

He grinned self-deprecatingly and continued. "h.e.l.l, for that matter, most of us are no blushing beauties. Look around you. Scrawny me with half an ear missing. Gnarly old salts, hulking marines, and awkward boys. With the singular exception of Lady Elphinstone here, most of us wouldn't win any beauty prizes." Around the table his guests grinned and raised their cups to each other in mock salutes.

He took his pistol out of his sash and carefully set it on the table, barrel pointed safely back and to his left. "Most of the great female warriors wouldn't win a beauty contest. For that matter, most warriors of either gender usually don't survive over the years just because of their looks. They're like my pistol here. This weapon has been in my family for generations, constantly at sea. It is short, squat, and deadly as h.e.l.l. The uneducated eye would call this weapon ugly, but it's beautiful to me. Perhaps a little like our Broadax. She may not be a beauty in the eyes of the world, but I love her all the more for it. As the poet said, 'verily, the rose is within the thorn.' "

Chapter the 15th.

Unhappy Lords, Who Dare Not

Carry Their Swords

They have given us into the hand of new

unhappy lords,

Lords without anger and honour, who dare not

carry their swords.

They fight by shuffling papers; they have bright

dead alien eyes;

They look at our labour and laughter as a tired man

looks at flies.

And the load of their loveless pity is worse than