After meeting with Princess Glaive in the Royal Glen, Melville went to the emba.s.sy to confer with Colonel Hayl. Now it was late in the day as he finally walked home. His guards were behind him. Ulrich was scowling along beside him.

His c.o.xswain seemed to have been offended (perhaps mortified or humiliated would be a better word) at missing out on the gunfight against Aunt Madelia's goons. He seemed to be determined to make up for it, right now, by starting a fight with every individual who came down the street. If looks could incite a battle, then Ulrich would have completed an entire war by the time they got halfway back to the Ship.

The Ship. His Ship. He was going to take his Ship to the far side of the galaxy. Distant ports. Exotic lands. Adventure! And his princess waited for him.

Adventure before him, great deeds behind him, and love waiting patiently for him. What more could any man ask?

As he walked along through the Sylvan streets an overwhelming fit of random, senseless happiness came over him. There was a song in his heart and a bounce in his step. Far more of a bounce than could be explained by the light gravity. He was walking on air with the disgusted, scowling Ulrich serving as his anchor.

As they headed down the streets toward the Pier, Melville saw something strange in front of him. Later he felt guilty for thinking it, but in truth the very first thing he thought was that a skinny man was leading an ape by the hand.

Then he realized that it was Hans and Broadax, in civilian clothing, walking hand-in-hand down the street. The two crusty ex-NCOsa"his sailing master and his marine lieutenanta"were walking down the street holding hands, headed toward him. Again he was ashamed of himself, but he couldn't help a panicky initial inclination to duck down a side street and avoid the meeting. But it was too late; they saw him and waved.

He gulped, breathed, and tried not to change his pace as he walked toward them. Funny, when someone was watching you closely and you consciously tried to walk nonchalantly, it was almost impossible to do. "Conscious nonchalance" was probably an oxymoron, or at least d.a.m.ned difficult, and he suddenly felt very young and awkward as he approached them.

Their civilian clothing was in subtle disarray. Broadax was in a blue gingham dress (a dress by G.o.d!) and Hans wore denim pants and a red plaid shirt. Broadax was absent her helmet with her wiry hair in wild disorder, but she had her cigar in her mouth, puffing happily, and various lumps in her dress indicated that she was carrying her "cutlery" with her. There was also the distinct tinkle of her chainmail lingerie. Hans had a chaw of tobacco in his lip and a bulge that could only be a .45 (" . . . or are you just happy to see me?" said some uncontrollable, mischievous inner voice). Their monkeys lounged comfortably on their shoulders.

They also were obviously well lubricated by alcohol and . . . yes, apparently . . . love. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof . . .

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips' red:

If snow be white, why then her b.r.e.a.s.t.s are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

As they drew to speaking distance, Hans wrapped his arm around Broadax (or kind of down and around) and caressed her. At least . . . that's what it might have been, Melville tried hard not to look. They were both grinning like fools, but this last action by Hans caused Broadax to giggle, exhaling a cloud of noxious cigar smoke.

I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

Broadax.

Giggle.

Those two words didn't belong in the same sentence. h.e.l.l, they didn't belong in the same paragraph. Then Melville's stunned mind realized that Broadax had little blue gingham bows in her spa.r.s.e, stringy beard.

"Evenin', Cap'n," said Hans pleasantly.

"Lieutenant Broadax, Mister Hans, good evening to you both." Then, taking the bull, or bulls, by the . . . horns, or whatever, Melville continued. "I see that you two have taken this opportunity to become friends . . . ?"

"Aye Cap'n," said Broadax jovially, in her gravelly voice. "Ye might say that." She laughed again, sounding like a foghorn, and Hans joined in with a hooting chuckle.

I love to hear her speak,a"yet well I know

That music hath far more pleasing sound;

I grant I never saw a G.o.ddess go,a"

My mistress when she walks, treads on the ground;

Thank G.o.d she didn't giggle again, thought Melville. He didn't think he could handle another giggle from her. He looked her up and down, or at least down and further down, and wondered what Hans saw.

"Aye, well I know you're both professionals, so . . . hopefully you'll keep it on sh.o.r.e."

"Oh, aye, Cap'n," Broadax said and they both seemed to sober up a little, "but we's both ossifers, so's it's okay, eh?"

Melville nodded. Fraternization between superiors and subordinate was forbidden, but it was permitted within the same ranks, off ship.

Hans continued, "Aye, so's we'll be gittin' while the gittin's gud! Heh heh. Good day to ya sur, an' G.o.d bless ya fer a h.e.l.l of a d.a.m.n fine cap'n, if'n I may say so."

"Aye," echoed Broadax, "Aye, by G.o.d ta that!"

Then with mutual nods they went their way. Melville looked over his shoulder and watched wonderingly as they walked away, holding each other tightly, finding a little bit of love in the midst of war and madness.

And yet, by heavens, I think my love as rare

As any she belied with false compare.

On his way up to his ship Melville saw the Honorable Cuthbert Asquith XVI pacing the pier next to Fang's berth. He looked haggard and worn, and appeared as though he was going to approach Melville. Then he appeared to change his mind, and he spun away. Melville shook his head in bewilderment. The whole world was acting crazy today.

When Melville came aboard he had many things to deal with, and little time to dwell on his officers' antics ash.o.r.e, or the bizarre behavior of an earthworm diplomat. A good portion of the crew was on sh.o.r.e leave, but his first officer was standing by. Melville grinned to himself as he realized that Fielder was unlikely to leave the ship again in this port. Melville called him into his cabin.

"Daniel, the Sylvans will come tomorrow to take two of the 24-pounders. Apparently they want to conduct research on them so they can start manufacturing their own 24-pounders. Do you suppose you 'manufacture' Keel charges?"

"d.a.m.ned if I know, sir," Fielder replied pleasantly. "How the Keels are made is a deep dark secret of the Celebrimbor shipwrights. Whatever their reason, I guess this is the Sylvan's price for all the support they have given us."

"Aye. I do hate to give up the guns, but they promise to replace them with their finest 12-pounders. And, as you say, it's really a small price to pay for all that they have done for us. After that they'll give us the prize money. I want us to get underway after the crew has had one day on the town with their prize money. Hopefully they won't be able to fritter it all away in just one day. Also, coordinate for a Sylvan bank representative to be here when we pa.s.s out the prize money. We'll pressure the men to save some of their money in the bank."

"Aye, sir. Prize money," Fielder said with wonder and amazement. "Now that is a civilized way of saying 'thank you.' "

"For me the money's just a way of keeping score."

"Huh!" grunted Fielder in surprise, looking carefully at his young captain. He could actually say things like that with a straight face, and seemed to be truly sincere about it. Fielder realized that for Melville the glory was all that mattered, and prize money was a way to put numbers on glory. "Then the 'score' is, 'Us: a whole bunch. Every other ship in the whole d.a.m.ned Westerness and Sylvan Navies: zero.' Any way you cut it, it's d.a.m.ned good of them, and we're winning the game."

Then Melville dropped his bomb. "They also say that we can keep the Sylvan topmen, and that Lady Elphinstone and Ranger Valandil will continue to stay with us, as part of their exchange program."

"Well, I will be d.a.m.ned," replied Fielder, leaning forward and looking at Melville with a touch of wonder and suspicion. "I'd have thought that with the war coming on they could have found a better use for crack topmen, an elite ranger and a master surgeon. Sir, this is not a good sign if you ask me. It means that they still have plans for us, and if it's all the same to you I'd just as soon never again get involved in this crazy Two-s.p.a.ce War of theirs."

Melville smiled confidently as he said, "Well, Daniel, I'm not about to turn them down. And whether or not we see any more action depends on whether anyone attacks us, and on what Westerness decides to do about the war. Frankly, I don't see Westerness getting involved. Yet."

"Aye," Fielder agreed cautiously.

"Another matter we need to discuss," Melville continued, intentionally changing the subject, "is why the Honorable Cuthbert Asquith is pacing the docks below. What do you know about it?"

"Well, sir," said Fielder with an evil grin, "I got the inside intel on that. It seems that old Cuthbert has got himself in trouble with the Sylvan secret police."

"Secret police?"

"Aye, sir. The name doesn't translate all that well. You might call them the 'thought police,' or maybe the 'culture cops,' or the 'technology cops.' Whatever you want to call them, they're the tool the Sylvans have developed across the centuries to deal with agitators, innovators, and technological trouble makers. It appears that Asquith shot his mouth off, as he did with us, and was turned over to the tender mercies of the secret police. He has been released, but only under the condition that he leave on the next ship headed west. There is a high risk that the Guldur will attack any unescorted ships, so the Sylvan admiralty is organizing a convoy system, but it will be a week or so until the first convoy is escorted out. So it appears that we are the next ship out and he has a choice. He can come groveling back to us, eating dirt every step of the way. Or he can be picked up by the culture cops again."

They both smiled rather unpleasant smiles, as Melville reflected on Asquith's dilemma. Then he said, "Daniel, sooner or later, no matter what we do, Asquith will probably get back to Earth and give his report."

"Aye, sir," agreed Fielder. "Even the Sylvans appear to be reluctant to murder a citizen of Earth in cold blood, no matter how bad the provocation, or how terminal his stupidity. They might like to, but they'd never get away with it. I think that they honestly didn't want the king's guards to kill the Westerness amba.s.sador. He just provoked some young hothead bodyguard too badly, and now the whole kingdom has to be on their best behavior."

"Yes," said Melville. "Like us, the Sylvans need all the goodwill they can get. Hopefully the Earth authorities know that Asquith is a fool and a twit, and releasing him will probably do less harm than killing him would. You know, maybe this is an opportunity for us to be his 'saviors.' People do grow, they do learn, and perhaps he has already been taught an important lesson by the Sylvans."

"I see where you're headed, sir. On the long voyage across the Grey Rift, perhaps the legendary 'Stockholm Syndrome' will set in, and we can win him over."

"Daniel, I know that you can be most genteel when you want to. I'd like for you to go talk to Asquith, tell him that just a simple apology will be accepted and all will be forgiven if he'll respect our culture and values. At best we might win him over a little, and at worst . . . well, at worst he can't say anything worse about us than he's probably already going to say."

"Aye," Fielder replied with an evil grin, "and without a shipload of pa.s.sengers who might witness it, there is always the possibility that he might have an 'accident' this time."

"No, Daniel, I want to make it very clear that we don't want any of that. Earth will hire countless private investigators, bounty hunters and mercenaries to scour the galaxy and seek justice if one of their citizens disappears. We don't want any of that. Just talk to him. Turn on the charm and see if you can work it out."

"Aye, sir," his first officer replied with a wry grin. "While I'm gone, perhaps you can talk to Private Jarvis. His enlistment is up this week and he seems determined not to re-up. Everybody in his chain of command has talked to him. Perhaps you can change his mind."

"Okay, I'll give it a try. Send him in."

On his way out Fielder noticed that McAndrews, the captain's steward, had Melville's uniform jacket in his hand. He was shaking his head and muttering peevishly, "Don' know how I'm ever gonna get those gra.s.s stains out . . ." Melville just blushed slightly and tried to ignore him, as Fielder grinned evilly.

"I didn't become a marine for this. Not to go around killing people!"

"Perhaps you should have been a sailor instead." Melville chuckled, but it was clear that Private Harold Jarvis didn't see the humor in the situation.

"Sir, it's different for people like you and Lieutenant Broadax. You like combat, but I was scared to death every single time. I was so scared. And it hasn't gotten any better."

"Son, I can't speak for Broadax, but I hope you'll believe me if I tell you that I was scared to death every time. Only my training and my conditioning carried me through. Then, afterwards, when we had to bury shipmates . . ."

"Aye, sir."

"Jarvis, I know you want to go back to the farm. I understand. Your family comes from a planet with what, just a few dozen families?"