Into the Storm

CHAPTER 5

The battle was over-at least the fighting part was. Like all battles, the aftermath looked as gruesome and painful as the strife. Walker’s searchlights illuminated the continuing toil on the deck of the huge ship that floated, still smoldering, less than a hundred yards away. The Lemurians tending their many wounded and throwing their enemies over the side appeared hesitant to enter the powerful beams at first, but they quickly recognized the friendly gesture, if not the power behind it. They now took full advantage of the unusual illumination. Very practical creatures, Matt observed. He’d hesitated to use the lights, concerned that they might perceive them as some sort of threat or an unwholesome act on Walker’s part. His concerns were quickly put to rest. Even if the Lemurians were uneasy, after what Walker had done for them, they were evidently prepared to accept her benevolence.

“Secure from general quarters,” he said quietly, and joined Sandra, Bradford, and the torpedo-director crew on the bridgewing. The torpedomen were unplugging their headsets and securing their equipment. He glanced up and behind to see Garrett and several others leaning on the rail of the fire-control platform, watching the labors of their “allies.” A tiny meteor arced over the side as Chief Gray, on the foredeck below the splashguard, guiltily flicked a cigarette away. “The smoking lamp’s lit, Boats,” Matt called down with amusement. The number one gun crew chuckled, and Gray turned on them in a vitriolic frenzy. Matt listened to the humorous tirade and shook his head.

“We should help them,” said Sandra, referring to the scene on the wounded ship. She paused, remembering her meager resources. Their supplies were limited, and so were the personnel of her “division.” Karen Theimer was increasingly withdrawn, and Jamie Miller was just a kid. Besides, they couldn’t all go. Still…

“I should help them. I should go across immediately and offer assistance, Captain.” She’d turned to face him, her words changing from an observation to a formal request.

He looked at her thoughtfully, but reluctantly shook his head. “That might be a good idea,” he temporized. “It wouldn’t hurt our resume with our new friends either, as long as they recognize your efforts for what they are. But it’s just not possible.”

“I’m afraid I must insist, Captain. We had no casualties and I’m sure I can make my intentions known. Pain has no language. Even if I can’t speak to them or know their physiology, I can help bandage. My God, they may not even know about germs!”

He nodded sympathetically and spoke very gently. “I admire your courage and compassion. But it really is impossible and you must not insist.” He gestured over the side. The sea still churned with the silvery, tuna-sized fish. Whenever another lizard hit the water, it frothed and thrashed anew. Sandra followed his gaze and bit her lip. “There’s no way I’m risking you or Nurse Theimer-not to mention a boat and crew- until things settle down. By morning the fish may have had their fill, and in daylight we might give it a try.”

“There’s no other way?” she asked, almost plaintively.

“No. In daylight, if those things are still down there, and we can get the Lemurians to understand, we might shoot a line across and rig a bosun’s chair. But that’ll take coordination and some very careful station-keeping. If one of those plesiosaurs shows up, we might have to maneuver…” He stopped. “That won’t work either. Hopefully by then we can just use a boat.”

He spoke no more and just stared across the water. His face was troubled, frowning. He was anxious to meet the Lemurians for a number of reasons. First, he certainly agreed with Sandra: if they could render medical assistance, they should offer it. More important, they’d just waded into a war in a big way, and he had no idea where they stood or how big a war it was. Possibly the lizards were simply raiders, the local equivalent of Malay pirates. Maybe the Lemurians represented the greater power, and even if there was a general war going on, they’d just ingratiated themselves to that power and all their problems were solved. But it was equally possible that the reverse was true. One of the lizard ships had escaped, and however powerful they might be, there was no doubt about the role Walker played in the battle. What’s more, they might not be so easily discouraged by modern weapons again. He wanted answers. And there lurked another problem: how in the world would they communicate? Perhaps Bradford would have suggestions.

After a while Sandra tentatively put her hand on his in the darkness. “I’m sorry again,” she said.

He looked at her, genuinely surprised-by the words and the touch. “What for?”

“For… a lot of things. For pressuring you. Doubting you. I know how hard it was, how much you wanted to avoid this. But you did the right thing.”

He looked at her very frankly and sighed. “I think so too, or I wouldn’t have done it. I hope we’re both right.” He smiled. “I guess we’ll find out.”

With the dawn, the sea regained its deceptively mild appearance and Captain Reddy ordered the larger motor launch prepared instead of the whaleboat. It was safer, and he wanted as many observers as possible. Sandra, Bradford, Gray, McFarlane, and Letts would go with him, along with two carpenter’s mates and an armed security detachment consisting of Silva, Felts, Reavis, and Newman. Tony Scott was coxswain. On a whim, more than for any other reason, Matt accepted Lieutenant Shinya’s request to go, although he would be the only one without a sidearm. He wasn’t really worried that Shinya would do anything untoward, but he believed-and even took time to explain to him-that the crew wouldn’t approve.

Again, he left Larry Dowden in command. “I don’t expect any trouble,” he told him, “but that’s what I thought last time. Remain at general quarters while we’re away. They’ve got to be expecting to say howdy in some fashion, but I’d rather do it on their ship first. If we wait around too long, they might decide to visit us, and I don’t want them roaming around my ship until we know more about them.”

“Understood, Captain, but I still ought to be the one to go,” Dowden said with a frown.

Matt grinned. “May be, but I’m the captain, so I get to do what I want. Seriously, though, I agree in principle, but-well, we’ve already been through this. You can be the first to meet the strange alien creatures next time, Larry. I promise.”

He climbed into the launch, which was already level with the deck. That was another good thing about the launch, he thought: it could be lowered with them in it. Slipping and falling into the water was no longer just an embarrassing gaffe; it was a death sentence. The keel smacked the waves and, with a burbling roar, they started across. The sun was up, but it was still early and Matt hoped they wouldn’t catch the Lemurians in a crabby mood before their version of morning coffee. More important, he didn’t want to surprise them. He needn’t have been concerned. Evidently, they’d been watching his ship very closely because, as soon as they approached, many of the creatures stopped what they were doing and scampered to the rail. Strange, excited cries alerted others.

“Hail the conquering heroes,” the Bosun growled.

As they drew nearer, the ship’s sheer size was even more impressive from their lower perspective. The rail was easily a hundred feet over their heads, and there was no question that the thing was as large as one of the new fleet carriers. Maybe bigger. That made the damage it had sustained even more amazing. The forward superstructure was completely destroyed, and the foremast tripod stood naked and charred. The pagoda-like tower had collapsed upon itself to become a mere heap of smoldering rubble. Clouds of ash billowed to leeward like gouts of steam. The forwardpart of the hull was scorched as well, though there didn’t seem to be serious damage to its structural integrity. It was massive, and while it was clearly made of wood, there was no telling how thick it was. Matt was surprised to discover that the bottom was copper-clad, much like Walker’s sailing-navy ancestors. No doubt the copper extending several feet above the sea served the same purpose here-to protect the hull from wood-eating organisms.

They coasted alongside, approximately amidships, until the launch almost bumped. But Scott was an excellent coxswain even with the more unfamiliar launch, and he avoided actual contact by the thinnest margin. They saw no way up, however. There were no steps or ladders for them to climb, and for the moment they could only stare at the numerous heads, high above, peering back down at them. Suddenly, a very familiar-looking rope-and-rung arrangement unrolled down the side with a clatter and jerked to a stop almost upon them.

“Well,” said Bradford, “not exactly a red carpet, after all, but certainly a warmer welcome than they gave their last visitors.” There were several chuckles, and Matt took the ladder in his hands.

“Ordinarily, I always say ‘ladies first,’ but this time I’ll break that rule.” There were more chuckles and a few uneasy glances at Lieutenant Tucker. Her reputation and stature had reached an unprecedented level, for a non-destroyerman (and a woman). She possessed undoubted skill as a healer and was genuinely friendly to those in her care. But she’d flown signals of an equally unprecedented temper, and her sense of humor had yet to be tried. She didn’t take offense at the captain’s attempt to seem lighthearted about his protectiveness of her, however.

“Boats, you’re next, then the security detail. Once they’re up, everyone can follow as they see fit.” He started up the ladder, but then stopped. “Everybody stay cool and friendly, and remember who you are and what you represent.” With that, he resumed his climb. He tried to appear brisk and confident and hoped no one detected his nervousness. He wasn’t afraid, exactly, but he had to admit to some anxious uncertainty. Never in his most bizarre dreams had he imagined that he would be doing what he was right now. Nothing he’d ever done had prepared him for this moment, and he didn’t have the slightest idea what to do. The only thing he was sure of was that nobody else did either and he’d better not screw it up.

Finally, he reached the rail and paused for a moment before jumping to the deck. Many of the creatures had gathered around, and they drew back at the sight of him, their inscrutable faces staring with large, feline eyes. They were every conceivable color, like three generations of kittens from a wanton barn cat. Long, fluffy tails twitched behind them, seemingly independent of their owners’ stoic immobility. And they were short. He hadn’t realized it, watching them through binoculars, but they were much shorter than he’d expected. The tallest he saw came only to his chin, and it was considerably taller than the others. He? She? He assumed it was a he, though he had no basis, yet, to make that guess. The majority of the creatures were dressed haphazardly, in what appeared to be a mixture of daily garb and the occasional piece of leather and copper armor. All seemed weary and many were wounded, but most were still armed with an axe or a short scimitar-like sword. Significantly, none were brandishing those weapons at him.

What set the tall one apart, aside from his height, was that he was covered entirely in a dark purple robe with large stars sewn across the shoulders, and the long-tailed hood was pulled tight around his face so that only his piercing gray eyes could be seen. The creatures nearest him seemed more alert than the rest, more detached from the moment, and they had a protective, proprietary air about them. Because of this, and his dress, Matt took him for a leader, or at least an authority figure of some kind. Gray clambered over the rail to join him and as he did, he put his hand on one of the enormous backstays supporting the center tripod. He took it away and looked at it. The stay was coated with thick black tar. He arched an eyebrow at his captain and Matt nodded. He’d seen it too. He stepped forward and the two of them, the robed figure and the naval officer, quietly faced one another while the rest of the party boarded. All the while, there was silence. Matt couldn’t even fall back on Navy custom and salute their flag, for there was none, at least at present, but maybe… maybe that didn’t matter. Tradition was tradition, and he expected even if they didn’t understand it, they would recognize it as such. Maybe they would appreciate the respect that went with it.

Abruptly, he pivoted to his right, facing aft, and snapped a sharp salute. Then he turned to the robed figure and saluted him as well.

“Lieutenant Commander Matthew Reddy, United States Navy. I request permission to come aboard, sir.”

The Lemurian blinked rapidly with what might have been surprise, and his lips stretched into what looked for all the world like a grin. Matt held the salute a moment longer, and then on impulse slowly lowered his hand until he held it, palm outward, toward the creature in the purple robe. Very deliberately, it pulled the hood from its face. It was still “grinning” broadly, although the expression didn’t extend beyond its mouth. Matt suspected that, like cats, their faces weren’t made to display emotions as humans did. The “grin,” if that’s what it was, spoke volumes, however, and now others nearby grinned too. To the amazement of the humans, the one in the robe carefully imitated Matt’s salute and held up his hand as well. Matt heard a gasp behind him, as well as Gray’s gravelly chuckle.

“Permission granted, Skipper,” he said quietly.

The Lemurian clasped both his hands to his chest and spoke: “Adar.”

Bradford pushed his way next to the captain. “Upon my word! Do you suppose he means he is Adar, or that’s the name for his people?”

Matt sighed. “I was about to… ask him that, Mr. Bradford. Please, let’s have no more outbursts. It might confuse them and I’m confused enough for us all right now.” He pointed at the creature. “Adar?” he asked.

The Lemurian blinked twice and, if anything, his grin grew broader. He spread his hands out from his sides and bowed.

Matt clasped his own hands to his chest and said, “Matthew Reddy.”

The creature struggled to wrap his mouth around the unfamiliar sounds. Then he made an attempt.

“Maa-tyoo Riddy.”

Matt grinned back at him. “Pretty good.” He turned and proceeded to name those who accompanied him, and then pointed across the water where the destroyer kept station. She really was a sight, he reflected. Streaks of rust covered her sides and the patched battle damage was made conspicuous by the fresher paint. The lizard firebomb had scorched a large section of her hull just aft of her number, and the paint was bubbled and flaking. Most of the crew was on deck at the moment too, watching them. The tattered Stars and Stripes fluttered near the top of the short mast aft.

“USS Walker,” he said.

A respectful silence ensued that lasted while all the Lemurians gazed at his battered ship. Adar’s grin went away and he somehow radiated solemnity when he spoke again.

“Waa-kur.”

He blinked rapidly and gestured toward an opening in the large deckhouse behind him. He hesitated uncertainly, looking back, then strode purposefully through it. The other creatures cleared a lane. Apparently, he expected them to follow. Matt looked at the Bosun, who shrugged, and he glanced at the others and caught Sandra’s eye. He shrugged too, and strode after the purple-robed figure, followed closely by his companions. Silva made a half-strangled, incredulous sound. Matt looked back.

“What…?” Then he saw it too. Suddenly, there was no doubt Adar was male. For the first time-driving home how distracted they were- they realized many of the Lemurians staring with open curiosity were also openly, glaringly-very humanly-female. Except for bits of armor, none wore much more than a kind of skirt, or kilt. Supremely practical, since their tails made other types of clothing inconvenient, but few tunics were worn by anyone. Furry breasts of a shape and proportion entirely, fondly, familiar (except for the fur, of course) unself-consciously jutted at them from all directions. Not surprisingly, Silva was the first to notice.

“Oh, my God!” squeaked Newman.

“Fascinating!” breathed Bradford.

“Not unusual,” said Sandra, a little sharply, Matt thought, and he saw her cheeks were pink. “Even ‘back home’ it’s not unusual at all for primitive people to go around like… this.”

“Way too ‘unusual,’ far as I’m concerned,” whispered Felts, and Sandra’s cheeks went darker.

“Silence!” growled Gray with less than normal vehemence. Clearing his throat, he went on, “Quit gawkin’ at their dames! You want ’em to eat us? Pick up yer eyeballs. They’re critters, for God’s sake!”

Matt coughed. “Not ‘critters,’ and not too ‘primitive’ to take offense, so keep your eyes”-he looked straight at Silva-“and your hands to yourselves. That’s an order!”

They stooped to enter the doorway, but inside was a much larger chamber than expected. It spanned the entire “ground” floor of the tower and the ceiling was as high as a college gym. Tapestries of coarse but ornately woven fibers decorated the walls, and large overstuffed pillows lay about the room in groups. It was a scene of considerable opulence compared to the scorched and bloodstained exterior. But even here, the scent of burnt wood and charred flesh and fur was all-pervading. Matt wondered how long that dreadful smell would linger like a shroud. In the center of the hall, the ceiling opened up to allow a strange-looking tree to rise, far above their heads. The only trees he knew were live oaks, cedars, and mesquite, so he couldn’t tell if it was more like a palm tree or a pine. But whichever, the thick, strangely barked trunk rose ten or fifteen feet before it branched into stubby limbs with delicate, greenish-gold palmated leaves. He looked at it curiously, but was more intrigued by the shape of another Lemurian seated on a stool at a small table nearby.

The creature sat completely still except for his tail, which swished slowly back and forth. Others stood around him, but it was clear that the short, powerfully muscled one with reddish-brown fur was who they attended. Matt wasn’t startled to recognize him as the one he’d waved to before. Without hesitation, he strode forward, closely followed by his companions, and held his hand up once again in what was evidently a universal sign of greeting, even here. Adar positioned himself next to the seated figure who, Matt saw upon closer inspection, had been wounded many times. Numerous cuts and slashes were evident across his powerful frame, and they hadn’t been bandaged. Instead, a clear, but slightly yellowish viscous fluid had been smeared into them. Matt wondered what it was, and he could almost feel Sandra’s anxious desire to go to him and help. He wasn’t sure the Lemurian needed any assistance.

For one thing, the dark eyes that held his seemed clear and focused and devoid of any distraction that excessive pain or fever might cause. Very solemnly, the creature raised its own hand and held it up in greeting. It spoke a few gravelly syllables and its mouth spread into a grin. Again, the expression went no further, but Matt sensed sincerity reflected in the dark pools of the Lemurian’s eyes. The one named Adar gestured with evident respect.

“Keje-Fris-Ar,” he said and bowed his head slightly. All the other Lemurians did the same. “U-Amaki ay Mi-Anakka ay Salissa,” Adar added, and the dignity with which he spoke implied a lofty title.

“I expect he’s the big bull around here,” whispered Gray, more to the others than to Matt. “Other one’s probably a witch doctor or pope or somethin’.”

In spite of himself and the situation, not to mention the tension he felt just then, Matt almost burst out laughing at the Bosun’s inappropriate comparison. “Chief,” he said through clenched teeth, “are you trying to get us killed? If you are, I bet one more comment like that will do the job.” Matt hadn’t looked at him when he spoke, but Gray’s voice sounded sincerely flustered.

“Uh… sorry, Skipper. But, I mean, we could recite nursery rhymes and they wouldn’t know the difference.”

“No, but we would, and I doubt they’d react well if we all started laughing right when they’re naming their gods or something. So put a lid on it!”

“Oh… oh!! Aye, aye, Skipper!”

“They are quite incredibly ugly,” commented Jarrik-Fas, Keje’s kinsman and head of Salissa Home’s active Guard. He spoke quietly to Adar while the two groups regarded one another. “They have almost no fur and their skins look pale and sickly.”

Adar replied from the corner of his mouth. “They looked beautiful enough yesterday when they helped drive off the Grik. Do you not agree?”

Jarrik grunted, but there was agreement in the sound. “The gri-kakka were welcome, too, while they devoured our enemies. But we’d not have wanted them to linger overlong.”

“True, but had they remained, there’s no question the gri-kakka would have done so in hopes of devouring us as well. Here there is that question. If the Tail-less Ones desired to devour us, they could have done so already with the power they possess. Yet they come peacefully before us.”

“Not un-armed, though,” observed Jarrik. “I don’t know what those things are that some of them carry, but they must be weapons. And yet they give the Sign of the Empty Hand while their hands are not empty.”

Adar was silent, thinking. He knew Keje was listening to the words of his two most trusted advisors, even as he watched their visitors. “That’s true,” Adar said, “but perhaps among their kind, the sign is more a figurative thing than a literal one. Perhaps it means their hands are empty toward us but not toward all.”

“And perhaps the sign means something else to them entirely,” grumbled Keje, speaking for the first time. “But the one who seems to be their leader has an empty hand, and it’s with him I must find some way to speak. Besides, would you have gone unarmed with me to their ship, Jarrik?”

Jarrik looked at the back of his leader’s head. “No, lord, I would not,” he admitted. “Not that it would matter in the face of their magic.”

The Tail-less Ones muttered among themselves as well, and Adar wondered if their conversation ran along similar lines. The long weapons some carried had been placed on their shoulders, suspended by straps. That was encouraging at least. Nearly all of them were talking now, and a large one, with less fur than the others, talked the most. Their faces moved in a manner he had to conclude displayed emotion in some way, since they had no tails and they rarely blinked. Their strange little ears couldn’t possibly convey any meaning.

Another spoke quite a lot as well, one that was smaller than the others and had very long fur on its head. The proportions of its anatomy indicated it was female, but it was difficult to tell with all the cloth they wore.

“The Scrolls make no mention of these creatures?” Keje asked, and shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m not sure, lord,” Adar temporized. “Not specifically. There is the reference by Siska-Ta to the tail-less race that departed into the East long ago,” he said grudgingly, “but their vessels were utterly different. They had sails, much like the Grik.” He tilted his head back, remembering, and quoted a line copied from the First Scrolls taught to him as a youngling, which he now taught his apprentices. It was in the forgotten language of the ancient Scrolls themselves, and none save the Sky Priests bothered to learn it. They had to, since it was the language of the ancients in which the secrets of the stars themselves had passed to them.

“And upon the longest of the long days, when the Sun Brother was large and close in the sky, they freed their great ship from the bottom of the sea and sailed into the East, into the emptiness of the Eastern Sea.” Adar smiled slightly with pride in the power of his memory. He read the Scrolls often, but he rarely spoke the words. He glanced at the Tail-less Ones and was surprised that they’d stopped speaking. All were looking at him with what he surmised to be very intent expressions. The one with so little fur stared with his mouth open wide. The one with the black fur and the darkest skin stepped near their leader and spoke into his small, misshapen ear. The leader, eyes wide, looked at the speaker with even more apparent amazement, but nodded, and the black-furred one turned to Adar.

“This said… speech… yours?” asked the creature in the ancient language of the Scrolls.

Keje lurched to his feet in shock, just as Adar hit the floor in a dead faint.

Matt stood in Walker’s pilothouse staring uneasily at the huge, wounded ship to starboard. They were creeping along in a generally north-north-easterly direction, at less than four knots. He reckoned that was as fast as the Lemurian ship could go in this wind, with all her damage. The Bosun stood beside him, as did McFarlane and Larry Dowden. The rest of the bridge watch went about their duties, but the usual banter was absent as the destroyermen strained to hear their words. He knew all the details would spread as fast as if he announced it on the shipwide circuit, but he felt no particular reason to keep the conversation secret. Everyone would know soon enough anyway.

“Latin,” murmured Gray. “Who would’ve ever thought it?” Matt nodded.

“But how?” asked McFarlane wonderingly. “I mean, how?”

“How… any of this, Spanky?” Matt gestured vaguely around. “It should make it easier to communicate, though I doubt many of the men know more Latin than Lemurian. But I don’t know how any more than you do. That’s one of the things maybe Bradford or Lieutenant Shinya will find out.”

Courtney Bradford, Lieutenant Shinya, Lieutenant Tucker, and the rest of the security detail had remained behind on the Lemurian ship and would stay for the rest of the day, with orders to learn as much as they could and render any possible aid. Once it was clear that his people had nothing to fear, Matt had decided to return to Walker. There was little he could add to the discussions, since he knew virtually no Latin, and with their now common enemy abroad in such unprecedented numbers-an enemy they now had a name for-he didn’t want to be separated from his ship if the Grik returned.

“Finding out about the Grik was valuable, but frustrating. We still don’t know very much. I don’t think the Lemurians do either. They’ve never been attacked in such force before, though.”

“They sure seemed appreciative for what we did for them,” muttered Gray, and then he grinned. “Once that Adar fella came to, he jabbered up a storm.”

“You understand some Latin, don’t you, Bosun?” asked Dowden.

Gray smirked. “About enough to know that’s what it is when I hear it. My mother was Catholic and she made me learn a little. Spanky should know more, though. Both his parents were Catholics.” His eyes twinkled. “And he sure took up with enough good Catholic Filipino gals!”

“I’m Catholic,” confirmed Spanky, narrowing his eyes at the Bosun, “but as far as understanding Latin, it might as well be Greek to me.” He grinned sheepishly. “I never even tried to pick any up.” He frowned. “’Course, I never would have figured that little Jap could speak it!”

Gray turned to Matt. “Yeah, Skipper, what about that? I nearly joined Adar on the deck when he opened up. You think it’s a good idea to leave him over there? I mean, he may have given his parole and all, but he’s still a Jap. And how the hell does a Jap know Latin?” he grumped.

“Beats me,” admitted Matt, “but Bradford knows it even better, and I guess he’ll keep an eye on him. Besides, I think he’s sincere about his parole,” he added guardedly. “What possible advantage could he find in betraying us, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” said Gray darkly, “but he’s a Jap. That’s all the reason he needs to betray us.”

Matt and the rest of his senior personnel were waiting for the launch when it drew alongside. He was anxious to hear what the rest of the boarding party had learned. As they came aboard, however, he quickly realized a few were missing. Bradford presented himself to the captain, although he didn’t salute. He looked tired but excited.

“Where’s Lieutenant Tucker?” Matt demanded immediately. “And Lieutenant Shinya and the two gunner’s mates?”

Bradford made a shooing gesture. “They’re perfectly fine, I assure you! Lieutenant Tucker has become engrossed in things medical and remained behind to assist with their wounded-as I’m sure you’ll remember giving her permission to do.” Bradford’s face darkened. “They have quite a lot of wounded, I’m afraid. Perhaps half their people-and as many as a quarter killed-many of them children and the very old. The fighting must have been horrific, sir. Horrific!” He fumbled in his shirt pocket for a scribbled note. “Here’s a list of supplies Miss Tucker would like sent over.” Matt took the note and handed it wordlessly to Alan Letts. “In any event,” continued Bradford, “the Jappo volunteered to remain and translate- extraordinary, that!” His eyes grew large. “Why ever in the world a young Jappo would want to learn Latin is quite beyond me, but I shall surely ask him! Yes, indeed! Oh, well, those two strapping lads-Silva, I believe, and… the other one-stayed behind to protect Miss Tucker, and the Jappo, I suppose, although they’re in no danger, goodness, no! The United States Navy represented by USS Walker and all her people are quite popular and appreciated just now!”

Matt wasn’t happy that Sandra had remained behind, but he had to admit she was in good hands if trouble arose. He was less sanguine about Dennis Silva’s ability to refrain from starting trouble, however. “Very well,” he said grudgingly.

“Were you actually able to talk with them? I mean conversationally?” Dowden asked.

“Well, yes, after a fashion. My Latin is slightly rusty-not many people speak it now, you know-but I’ve kept it up fairly well. It’s virtually a necessity for my less professional pursuits. Did you know nearly every plant and creature has a Latin name? Of course you did.” He gratefully accepted one of the precious Cokes and took a sip. “Ahem. Well, there are some differences, mostly in pronunciation. Frankly, the way their mouths are shaped, I’m astonished they can make human sounds at all. I did discover they learn their Latin from a written source-which makes sense. Otherwise, it would probably have become incomprehensible over time, passed down word of mouth.”

Matt started to ask what written source, but Lieutenant McFarlane spoke first. “How long do you think they’ve been speaking it?”

“I don’t think one could say they speak it, per se, as a language at any rate. Only a small percentage understand it at all, and those seem confined to a certain caste, or sect. Their society is segregated into several such groups, based on labor distribution, similar to the differentiation between your deck-apes and engine room snipes, but to a much higher degree.

“As best I can tell, there are three major castes, or ‘clans,’ among them, although it’s a bit more complicated even than that because-” Matt held up his hand and made a winding motion as if to say “get on with it.” Bradford looked sheepish and nodded. “Well, first you have the… I think ‘wing runners’ might be the most accurate translation. They’re the ones controlling the masts and sails, much like ‘topmen’ would have done in our own sailing past. Then they have the ‘Body of Home’ clan- which is what they call their ship, by the way-Salissa Home. I’ve no idea what a ‘Salissa’ is. Perhaps it means ‘Home of our People,’ or something like that. It may be their tribe.” He blinked and rubbed his nose. “The Body of Home clan is the most numerous, and would be roughly parallel to ‘waisters’ in days of old. They’re the ones who perform all the chores and duties required for everyday life: fishing, gardening, hull repair, et cetera. It’s usually from this clan that their leaders arise, by the way. The third caste is the navigators or, to be more precise, ‘Sky Priests.’ There are very few of them, but they have a unique status. Their religion is all wrapped up in the semi-deification of the sun, the moon, and the heavens inclusively-which is not all that surprising, I suppose. I didn’t have time to delve too deeply into their theology, of course, but I get the impression it’s somewhat vague.”

He looked at them and smiled. “The heavens are certainly important, not least because of their reliance upon the sky for navigation! There’s much more to it than that, I’m sure, but you see? That’s why their Sky Priests are taught Latin!”

Matt shook his head and wondered if he’d missed something. He was becoming used to Bradford’s stream-of-consciousness way of communicating, but sometimes he missed the thread and it could be tiresome. He cleared his throat. “And why was that again?”

“Well, I don’t know what they use as a general written language, or even if they have one at all. But one thing that chap Adar made perfectly clear was how surprised they were that we could speak the Ancient Tongue of the Sacred Scrolls themselves!”

“And what exactly are these Scrolls?”

“Why, I suppose they’re much like our Bible! Complete with an exodus myth and admonitions to behave! I gathered from his few references that it is very Old Testament in nature.”

“I take it, then,” Matt said, trying not to let his impatience show, “that somehow these Scrolls are written in Latin?”

Bradford looked at him as he might a dull pupil in a classroom. “Of course they are! That’s the whole point, don’t you see? Not only are they a Bible, of sorts, they’re also charts and navigation aids as well! That’s why the priests must learn to speak a language that’s even more dead here than it ever was back home.”

“Prob’ly why there’s so few of ’em,” Gray put in with a snort. Bradford glared at him.

“It also raises an intriguing question,” said Letts. “The Latin makes it clear they’ve had contact with humans at some time in their past. We already suspected the, ah… Grik had. Judging from their ships, it was within the last few hundred years. The question for the Lemurians is when did it happen? I’m not sure it matters in the grand scheme of things, but my impression was that none had ever seen or heard of human beings and we were as big a surprise to them as they were to us. Did they get Latin from a Latin-like Romans or something? Or was it some guy, like Mr. Bradford here, just passing through who taught it to them for a hoot?”

“That’s an interesting point. I’d like to have the answer to that question myself,” Matt said. He shrugged. “Partly, I admit, because it is a fascinating question, but mainly because it may make more difference than you realize, Mr. Letts. When they learned it, that is. I agree it probably wasn’t in their living memory, but if it wasn’t too long ago, maybe, somewhere, there are still other people like us to be found. If so, finding them is going to be increasingly important.” He cleared his throat. “You may have noticed the men’s reaction to the Lemurian females?” There were thoughtful nods. “As time passes, certain… frustrations are going to become more acute. If it’s possible there’re other people in this world, we’re going to need to find them-and not just because of that. If the Lemurian/ human contact was thousands of years ago, though, that possibility seems more remote. Besides, if that’s the case, it might create complications beyond the obvious.”

“Indeed?” replied Bradford. “How so?”

“Look at it like this. Hundreds of years ago, maybe more, somebody wrote these Scrolls, or taught one of them Latin so they could write them down. They’ve based their spiritual beliefs on those writings. Out of the blue, strangers show up, deliver them from their enemies, and speak the sacred tongue. All this may not have sunk in yet, and if only a few of them speak Latin, it might take a while. But when it does, we might be faced with a decision.” He looked at the faces around him, all staring intently back. He sighed. “They might think we’re gods!” he said quietly. “What are we going to do then?”

The items on Sandra’s list had been brought over-needles and catgut for stitching, mostly. There were many, many wounded, and most had deep slashes, although there were a few arrow wounds as well. Those were the ones that concerned her most. She could handle stitching slashed flesh and binding superficial cuts, but she was very afraid to go fishing around inside the unfamiliar creatures trying to dig something out when she didn’t know their anatomy.

She knew she would have to, though. The only treatment the Lemurians seemed to know for battle injuries was to apply the same viscous paste she’d seen on their leader. She had no idea what it was, but it apparently had certain analgesic and antibacterial properties. It might even be better than sulfanilamide. Whatever it was and however well it worked, it couldn’t stanch blood loss or repair muscles and sinews hacked in two. Learning to deal with so many casualties at once had apparently never occurred to them-just as fighting such a battle hadn’t. She hoped, however, that if the paste worked as well as they assured her through Lieutenant Shinya it did, very few amputations would be required.

It was slight consolation, looking at the sea of bodies stretched before her in neatly organized, blood-soaked rows. She was just a nurse. She was a very good nurse, but up until recently, she’d been a peacetime nurse who’d never faced anything like this. She’d taken it upon herself to learn more about her profession than required and she felt competent to assist in most surgical procedures, but until just a few days before, she’d never dealt with actual battle casualties. Now this.

The severity and variety of the wounds left her appalled. She knew that modern warfare often inflicted even more ghastly wounds, but usually at a distance. The idea that enemies could stand face-to-face and hack each other apart to produce wounds like those she saw made her skin crawl like the sight of a bullet wound would never have done. She was in so far over her head that she felt her composure and her previously unshakable confidence beginning to slip. With sudden clarity, she thought she knew precisely how Matt must feel, caught up in events far beyond what his training and experience had prepared him for. He’d done a pretty good job, she reflected, even if he didn’t know what he was doing. Somehow he always managed to act as though he did. That might work well in matters of leadership, but it wasn’t the best approach when it came to medicine, she thought wryly. Or was it?

Adar and several apprentices hovered nearby, talking with Lieutenant Shinya as she sewed. Many other Lemurians, young and old alike, watched her work intently. Besides her efforts, however, there was virtually no other treatment under way. She finished suturing a long gash in a young Lemurian’s leg while it stared at her unflinchingly with large, liquid eyes. She stood and tried to wipe hair from her eyes with her forearm. It was covered with sweat and she only managed to paste the loose hair to her face. Without a word, an uncustomarily attentive Dennis Silva poured alcohol on a rag and handed it to her. She began wiping blood off her hands and trying to get it out from under her fingernails. The harder she tried to get it all, the madder she got.

“Lieutenant Shinya? Would you be kind enough to signal the ship and ask Captain Reddy to send Pharmacist’s Mate Miller and Ensign Theimer over to help? My God, there must be two hundred or more I haven’t even seen yet!” She paused, considering. “Also, please ask Adar why none of his people are helping. They may be unaccustomed to this kind of medicine, but all I’m doing is sewing them up.” She gestured around. “And I know they can sew!”

“Of course, Lieutenant.” Tamatsu turned and began to speak. Adar answered and Shinya relayed his message. “He said he didn’t know you wanted help. It’s customary among his people for those with specialized skills to guard their methods. He said their healers-many of whom are watching you work even now-would like to try the methods they have seen, but are afraid you will be offended.”

She shook her head and almost screamed with frustration. “The only thing that offends me is they’d be willing to let their people suffer over something that silly!”

“Then I will tell him you will freely share your expertise. I will not relay your last statement, though,” he said just a little primly. “To them, I am sure it’s not silly at all.”

“Then tell them to bring boiling water! And find out if they have any alcohol or anything I can use for an antiseptic! I’m just about out!”

Shinya nodded curtly and spoke to the Lemurian official again. Sandra wasn’t sure how fluently the two communicated because the Japanese officer punctuated his statements with hand gestures and repeated phrases, but Adar seemed to grasp what was said and soon barked commands. To Sandra’s surprise, within moments a cauldron of boiling water appeared, as well as a dark earthen cask, or jug, that had a pungent aroma. They must have had the stuff nearby, she thought. They’d have been using it already if I hadn’t been here. Chagrin surged through her. She realized she’d just naturally assumed she knew more about medicine than these “primitives” and dived right in. They may have even been as angry with her as she was with them! It says something for the regard they must hold us in, she thought. Otherwise, they might’ve just killed me! She shook her head and pointed at the cask. “What’s that?”

“It’s a fermented spirit they make from fruit, Lieutenant Tucker,” Tamatsu replied. “They call it seep.”

Silva leaned forward, suddenly interested. “Hey, Jap, ask him if it can be drank!”

Tamatsu looked at the big destroyerman a moment before he replied. “Gunner’s Mate Silva,” he said in an icy tone, “I have given my parole to your captain, as well as my word of honor. But I’m still an officer in the Japanese Imperial Navy. If you do not address me with the respect due my rank, or at least that due one man of honor from another, I won’t ask him that, or anything else for the remainder of our visit today. I do not think Captain Reddy would be pleased if our communications broke down entirely because one of his men was rude.”

Silva bristled. The words “mighty uppity for a stinking Jap” actually formed in his mouth, but somehow he caught them and clenched his teeth. At his full height, he towered above the other man, but Tamatsu merely looked at him, unconcerned. Silva visibly uncoiled, and after a moment a grin spread across his weathered, stubbly face. “Well, I’ll be damned, but you’ve got guts, Jap… I mean Lieutenant Jap.” He held up a hand with a wider grin. “No offense, but I don’t know your name.”

Tamatsu bowed slightly. “Lieutenant Tamatsu Shinya,” he said.

Silva nodded back, but his face darkened. “I ain’t gonna call you sir, no way in hell. You are a Jap. But I’ll call you Lieutenant Shinya, if that makes you happy.”

“That will suffice, Gunner’s Mate Silva,” he said, and a slight grin formed on his face as well. “And, yes, the Lemurians do drink seep, although there’s no telling what it would do to you.”

Silva arched an eyebrow. “Well! In the interests of science, and prob’ly diplomacy too, I reckon it’s my duty to find out!”

Sandra, who’d managed a grin of her own by now, cleared her throat. “Your duty, Mr. Silva, is to assist me and stay out of trouble. That duty most emphatically does not include testing the local booze. Do I make myself clear?”

Silva glanced at the cask and licked his lips. With a force of will, his expression changed to a beatific smile. “Aye, aye, sir!” He blinked. “Uh… ma’am-hell, that’s a mouthful!” His face lost all expression whatsoever as Sandra looked at him sternly. “Perfectly clear!” he managed at last.

Sandra straightened her back. There was a pain high in her hips that had grown more intense from leaning over to tend the wounded. For the first time in a while, she looked around. Already, Lemurian healers had swept into the “hospital area” on the open deck between the center and the shattered forward tower. They treated the injured in their own way. Some examined the stitches she had made, and jabbered in their quick, excited tones. Obviously, body language added a great deal of meaning to their speech, and she was growing convinced that their blinking eyes conveyed much as well. She walked into the almost-shade under the catwalk above. She couldn’t venture farther because that was where a sort of orchard of large pear-shaped fruit began. She’d heard it called polta fruit. The orchard ran entirely around the ship for a width of about fifteen feet. The wide catwalk was pierced at regular intervals by gratings that allowed light to the plants. The fruit itself, despite its familiar shape, had the color and shiny texture of purple grapes and grew in bunches as well, nestled in a mass of waxy, yellow-green leaves.

At the edge of the orchard was a Lemurian she knew was tall by the standards of his people, and his upper body was more muscular than most. He wore nothing but a bright red kilt stained dark by the blood matting his brindled fur and still seeping from a couple of cuts. He leaned on one knee over the still form of a female of similar color, raising her head so she could drink from a cup. One of the swords, like a cross between a machete and a scimitar, lay beside a blood-encrusted axe.

The female had clearly been in the fighting. Sandra had treated others as well. The first time she removed a bloody leather tunic from one of their “professional” warriors and discovered furry breasts beneath, she was shocked. Adar and his entourage were standing right there, though, and made no sign that the discovery of a female in the ranks was unusual. As she’d said earlier, the semi-nudity didn’t surprise her-although she’d finally rounded savagely on Silva and his buddies when she overheard their comments about the “cat-monkey booby farm”-but she hadn’t been prepared to find females not only fighting for their lives in a desperate situation but doing so as actual warriors.

After a time she grew inured-if not accustomed-to the apparent fact that among Lemurians there was total equality of the sexes. At least as far as warfare was concerned. But in this instance there seemed a contrast between that and the tender, very human concern she saw of a male for an injured female. She moved toward them unobserved. Adar was busy discussing something with Shinya and another Lemurian who’d approached. Silva, “distracted” again, suddenly noticed she’d wandered off and hurried after her, lugging his BAR. The big Lemurian straightened and regarded them as they neared. The female tried to rise, but Sandra made a lay-back motion with her hands and crouched beside her. The male and Silva remained standing, facing each other.

A quick survey showed Sandra no obvious life-threatening wounds, but there was a nasty cut above the left eye, slick with the healing lotion that Lemurians seemed to use as liberally as Mercurochrome. A possible concussion, then, but the eyes were alert. She smiled and crossed her hands over her chest. “Sandra,” she said. The female’s eyes fluttered rapidly and she glanced at the male who was now staring intently at Sandra as well.

With a wince, the female raised her left arm and patted herself. “Risa.” Then she pointed at the male and said, “Chack.”

Shinya and Adar joined them. “Lieutenant Tucker, Adar tells me their leader, Keje-Fris-Ar, desires we attend him once more.”

Sandra nodded, but reached out and gently patted Risa’s hand before she stood. “Very well, but please ask him to tell this one I hope she feels better soon.” She turned to Silva. “Stay here, and when Ensign Theimer and Pharmacist’s Mate Miller arrive, tell them whatever they do, don’t act like they’re taking over-just assist any way they can. Understand?”

“Yes, Miss… Lieutenant Tucker. I’ll tell Reavis and Newman that very thing, but me and Felts’ll tag along with you.”

“Really, Mr. Silva, that’s not necessary.”

He grinned. “Maybe not, ma’am, but I think we will anyway. Skipper’d have us thrown to the fishes if we let you out of our sight.”

Sandra sighed. “Very well. If you feel you must loom menacingly in the background wherever I go, I’ll not upset you by protesting further, but promise you’ll do so as peacefully as possible?”

“Absolutely, ma’am,” Silva said with an expression of purest innocence. “Everybody’ll tell you I’m as peaceable a critter as there is.”

Near dusk, the launch bumped into Walker’s side for the final time that day, and the passengers carefully climbed the metal rungs to the deck above. The nurses went first. The one named Theimer seemed almost catatonic, and Lieutenant Tucker had to help her up. Tony Scott had noticed she wasn’t quite with it when he took her across, but she looked even worse coming back, and she hadn’t said a word either time-not that he paid much attention, or even really cared. He just wanted out of the boat. He’d been in the launch most of the day, with the terrible silvery fish- and occasionally larger things-bumping against it. He’d controlled the urge to fire the Thompson over the side in mounting terror, but he hadn’t set it down all day. Now all he could think about was getting something more substantial than the wooden hull of a twenty-six-foot boat between him and whatever lurked below the surface of the water he’d always loved. He scrambled up last, urging Silva ahead of him.

“Calm down, Tony. What’s your rush?” jibed Silva as he neared the top, over Scott’s labored breathing below.

“Goddamn you, Silva! If you don’t hurry, I guess you’ll find out in a minute when I throw you in the water!”

Silva laughed as he clambered onto the deck and turned to offer the coxswain his hand. “Hell, they’s just fish, Tony, just like sharks. Sharks ain’t never spooked you before.”

As soon as he gained the deck, Scott moved quickly to the center, as far from the water as possible. Silva and Felts followed. Miller, Reavis, Newman, and the two nurses went below while others hoisted the launch aboard. Scott took a cigarette from Felts and lit it with trembling hands. He took several deep drags, eyes flitting nervously from point to point but carefully avoiding faces. “I been on the water all my life,” he said at last. “I grew up in Fort Lauderdale and had a sailboat, a fourteen-footer I’d take on the open ocean in the Gulf before my daddy figured I was old enough to drive.” He drew in another lungful of smoke. “Had some scrapes, too. Bad weather. Sharks…” He glanced at Silva, searching the big man’s face for ridicule. He shrugged. “From then to now, I ain’t ever been afraid of the water.” He shuddered. “Until today. It started creepin’ up on me when I went across to Mahan right after the Squall, but I guess it finally got the better of me. Even those critters that got Marvaney didn’t spook me like that constant bumpin’ all day long. Knowin’…” He shook his head and looked back at Silva. “They ain’t just fish, Dennis, and this ain’t the Java Sea. Not anymore. I’ve known it from the start, but with everything going on, it just never sank in till today. I finally realized the water ain’t even just the water anymore. The water’s death, fellas, and if I had my druthers, I’d never go near it again.”

He’d been speaking in quiet tones, but evidently louder than he thought. They heard a gruff laugh and turned to see Dean Laney by the rail, leaning on the safety chain by the number one torpedo mount. The big machinist’s mate wore a sadistic grin.

“Don’t that beat all? The coxswain’s afraid of the water! Har! I bet you’ll be strikin’ for snipe now, so you don’t have to look at it no more! ’Course, when I tell ever-body what a chickenshit deck-ape you are, Spanky won’t even take you as a bilge coolie!”

Scott bristled, but Silva held him back. Then he grinned and sauntered over to the stanchion next to Laney. He peered over the side.

“Woo, Laney, you’re so brave! I ain’t never seen a snipe this close to the water before! I hope you’re holdin’ that safety chain tight. I wouldn’t want you to fall!”

“Hell with you, Silva! Least I ain’t scared of the wa… Aaah!”

He shrieked when Dennis pulled the pin on the stanchion that held the chain in place. He went over the side and the chain went taut with a clanking thud heard over Laney’s high-pitched scream. Silva looked down and saw the machinist’s mate bouncing against the hull, mere feet above the deadly sea, hands clenched tight on the chain, his upturned face contorted by a grimace of terror.

“SHIT! Help! Help! Goddamn you to hell, Silva! HELP ME!”

“But you ain’t scared of the water, Dean,” Silva called down mildly.

“I… I am scared, damn you! HELP ME!”

Silva heard running feet, and Felts and Scott grabbed the chain and started pulling.

“Shit!” exploded Scott. “You could’a killed him!” Other men arrived and between them they soon had Laney on deck, gasping and shaking, tears in his eyes.

“You could’a killed him!” Felts accused under his breath. Silva shrugged, then squatted and looked Laney in the eye.

“Damned ol’ rusty pin must’a gave,” he said. “No tellin’ what might happen if a fella ain’t careful what he does-or says.” He stood and laughed. “Whoo-ee! Lucky you was holdin’ that chain, Laney! Gives me the willies. The very idea of fallin’ in the water scares the shit out’a me!”

Sandra scrubbed her hands in the tiny basin in the compartment that once belonged to Lieutenants Ellis and Rogers but that she now shared with Ensign Theimer. Karen sat expressionlessly on a small chair, knees together, staring at her hands on her lap. They were caked with dried blood, and black rings encircled her fingernails. There was more on her clothes and face, and it even streaked her hair where she’d been squirted by a pulsing artery.

“You did well today, Karen,” Sandra complimented her. Which was true-to a point. She’d followed orders and done her job, stitching wounds in her professional, economical way. She’d done exactly what she was told to do-but no more. All the while her face was slack, her eyes dead, as if her body ran on autopilot but she wasn’t really there. Sandra saw that the expression was still the same. She sighed.

“Get cleaned up and go to the forward berthing space with Jamie Miller to check on Seaman Davis. I have an idea I’d like to try.” Ensign Theimer didn’t respond. She didn’t move. “Karen?” Worried, Sandra dried her hands and looked in the other nurse’s eyes. For a moment she saw no recognition, no spark of human consciousness. “Karen!” she shouted and shook her roughly by the shoulders. “Karen, speak to me!”

Huge, shiny tears welled up in the empty eyes and when she blinked, they gushed down her face-and somehow she’d returned from wherever she’d been hiding. Her large, glistening, haunted eyes desperately searched Sandra’s, but didn’t see what they’d hoped. She closed them again, and a piteous moan escaped her lips.

“I want to go home!”

Sandra went to her knees, embracing the younger woman as tight as she could.

“Oh, God, me too, me too!”

The tears came then, like rivers, from both of them. For a long moment, Sandra held her while Karen sobbed and sobbed. Finally, when it seemed she’d exhausted herself, Sandra drew back and put her palm on Karen’s face. “Me too,” she whispered again, “but I don’t think we can. For some reason, here we are and we’ve got to deal with that. I need you, girl. God, I can’t do this alone! The ship needs you, and so do these men. We both have to be strong-to hold up.”

“But it’s so hard!”

“I know. Believe me, I know! I nearly lost it myself today. But don’t you see? We can’t! We don’t have that… luxury. Too many people are counting on us, and we’re all they’ve got. We can’t let them down-we can’t let ourselves down.” She wiped the bloody hair from Karen’s eyes with a gentle, tearful smile. “You okay?” Miserably, Karen nodded, and Sandra squeezed her filthy hands. “I’m glad you’re back-don’t leave me again. I’m the first woman chief surgeon on a United States warship. I’ll mark you AWOL!”

Karen snorted a wet, almost hysterical laugh, but nodded.

“Good. Now get cleaned up and check on Seaman Davis. We don’t want these goons to think we’re weak sisters.” She watched while Karen, still sniffling, washed her hands and then left the compartment. As soon as she was gone, Sandra felt the tension flow out of her and she put her face in her hands. “I want to go home too,” she repeated, whispering, almost surrendering to sobs herself.

She still had to talk to Matt. It would probably be a long talk, and all she really wanted was to curl up in her bunk and fall into a dreamless sleep. She shook her head, wet one of the dingy washrags, and wiped the grime and tears from her face. Standing in front of the noisy little fan with her eyes closed, she let the tepid breeze dry her and tried to pretend it was refreshing. After a moment, she ruefully realized that she was fooling herself. She ran a brush through her sweat-tangled hair and stepped through the curtain.

Seated in the wardroom talking in quiet tones were the captain, Bradford, Gray, Dowden, Shinya, and Sergeant Alden, who seemed relieved that his charge had returned to his custody. The Marine was getting around better every day, but the idea of his climbing up and down ships, given the consequences of a fall, was ridiculous. He took his “escort” duty seriously, though, and he’d been disappointed when his request to accompany them to the Lemurian ship was denied.

They stood and greeted her with strained smiles, and Lieutenant Shinya nodded politely. They couldn’t have avoided overhearing Karen’s sobs, or indeed much of the women’s conversation. Sandra realized with a start that Matt’s “smile” seemed even more troubled than the others’. As soon as they resumed their seats, Juan appeared at her elbow and poured a cup of weak coffee (he’d begun to conserve) that she’d have mistaken for tea if not for the smell. Ordinarily, in meetings like these, Juan would have excused himself, but ever since the Squall, he often lingered, and Matt didn’t send him away. He figured it was easier to inform the crew through the grapevine than make announcements every day. Besides, Juan would be careful what he passed on.

“I trust you’re well?” asked Bradford. “Mr. Shinya told us your efforts were tireless.”

Sandra smiled wanly. “Not tireless,” she said. “It’s been a tough”-she paused and looked reflective-“but interesting day. I think we were a help, once I figured out when to leave well enough alone, and we learned a lot.”

The others nodded solemnly.

“True,” said Matt, “but I wish you hadn’t stayed behind.”

“I wasn’t alone. Lieutenant Shinya was there.”

Matt glanced at the Japanese officer speculatively but nodded.

“As were several armed men,” Tamatsu said. “She was in no danger. Your gunner’s mate… Silva? He is a formidable man. If the lieutenant had been threatened in any way, I believe he would have contrived to destroy their ship around us, by himself.”

Gray grunted. “Silva!” he muttered. “He’s part of what I was worried about.” Everyone, including Tamatsu, laughed at that.

“Well,” said Matt, “you must be starving. Juan? Pass the word for sandwiches, if you please.” The Filipino bowed his head and whispered through the wardroom curtain. There was no telling who was on the other side, but he returned to his place against the hull with the expression of one who fully expected the task to be performed.

“While we’re waiting, tell us what happened when you went to see this Keje again,” Matt suggested. “Lieutenant Shinya said you should be the one to speak, but I’d like to hear what you both have to say.”

Sandra nodded. “He was weak from his wounds, but not debilitated, I think. Their medicine’s not nearly as primitive as I expected. They have no concept of germ theory, but their infection rate is low. They clean wounds with hot water for no other reason I could see than that it just makes sense to do so. They hold cleanliness in high regard.” She glanced down at her uniform blouse and wrinkled her nose to the sound of sympathetic chuckles. “They also apply a kind of salve to wounds that must be antibacterial in some way, in addition to being a local analgesic. I asked for a sample and they gave me a whole jar. There’s no telling if it’ll be helpful to humans, and I don’t know what it’s made of yet, but I want to try some on Seaman Davis, with your permission. His fever just won’t go away. He’s still in danger of losing his leg, at least.”

Bradford nodded enthusiastically, but Matt regarded her thoughtfully. Gray looked downright dubious. “I know they believe in the stuff-nearly everybody over there had some smeared on ’em, but do we know it actually works?”

Sandra held out her hands palm up. “The only evidence I have after so short a time is their absolute faith and certainty. Many of their wounds were bites, you know, and some who were bitten far worse than Davis were treated with the stuff and considered lightly injured.”

Matt scratched his ear. “Does it have the same effect on the Grik? I mean, have they used any on the Grik wounded and if so, do they think it’ll work?”

Sandra glanced down at her hands, clasped on the table. When she looked back up, her expression was hooded. “There were no Grik wounded, Captain.”

“But… that’s impossible!” interrupted the Australian. “They can’t all have died! It’s imperative I see one alive!”

“There were no Grik survivors on the Lemurian ship, Mr. Bradford,” Sandra restated. “Many committed suicide after they were abandoned, mostly by jumping into the sea. The rest were… helped over the side by the Lemurians.”

“No prisoners, then,” Captain Reddy observed quietly.

“No, sir.” Sandra shook her head. “Like everything else we’ve observed in this world, there’s no compromise between total victory and total defeat. You win or you die. Warfare among the Lemurians themselves- at least ‘Home against Home’-is so rare there’s no memory of it. They have their problems, sure, but evidently they don’t kill each other over them, beyond the rare duel. The Grik, however, are the ‘Ancient Enemy’- that’s how they’re referred to. Their conflict literally extends beyond their history, although pitched battles like the one we intervened in are rare, if not unheard of. Mostly, they’ve only had to contend with what amount to harassing attacks or raids. But the frequency is increasing, and no one’s ever heard of attacks by six Grik ships at once.”

“Any idea why they do it?” Matt probed.

“Not really. In spite of the Grik being the Ancient Enemy, the Lemurians don’t know a lot about them. They just know that when the Grik come, the Grik attack. It’s the way of things. They fight like maniacs and they don’t take prisoners, so neither do the Lemurians.” She rubbed her tired eyes. “I’m not sure they even understand the concept of surrender.” She glanced at Lieutenant Shinya and was struck by how similar to his culture, in that respect at least, the Lemurians had been forced to become. However, unlike Imperial Japan, the Lemurians were anything but militaristic and expansionist. She noticed the others looking speculatively at the Japanese officer as well, but Tamatsu endured their stares with stoic indifference. If he was troubled by their scrutiny, he didn’t let it show.

“Well,” said Matt, and sighed with slight relief. “Maybe we’re not stuck in such a big war after all-just a really long one.” There were chuckles. “The Lemurians fought well against a really scary enemy, but if they thought the Grik were a major problem, I think they’d be better prepared. Be more warlike themselves. With a few simple expedients, I don’t think a dozen Grik ships could board something as big as their ship.” There were nods, but Sandra wasn’t sure. America hadn’t been very prepared for Pearl Harbor.

“Anyway,” said Matt, “we were talking about the salve.” He let out a long breath. “Try it, if Davis is willing. I won’t force him to take some alien cure.” Sandra nodded acceptance. She knew Matt must have hoped she could experiment on a wounded Grik first, but if the stuff worked as advertised, it would save Davis’s leg. She’d done all she could, but the bite had left an incredibly persistent infection. His immune system was fighting it, but she didn’t expect it could do so indefinitely or totally. She was sure she could get him to try it.

Bradford leaned forward in his chair. “Did you get any indication why our first meeting with their leader was so short?” he asked. “He seemed alert, eager, and energetic at first, particularly after we established communications. Then, suddenly, he spoke a few words, and we were ushered out. Was that normal protocol?”

“I don’t think so,” answered Sandra. “Maybe we did take them by surprise. He was probably under medication of some sort, something to make him sleep-they also put great store in the healing power of sleep, by the way-but…” She lowered her voice and looked pointedly at the curtain.

Matt noticed the direction of her glance. “Sergeant Alden, clear the passageway. I’m sure if there’s anybody in it they have duties elsewhere.”

“I will go check the sandwiches,” said Juan. “Do not stir, Sergeant. I will shoo them off.”

When the steward left, they all looked back at Sandra expectantly.

“Thank you, Captain. All I really wanted to say, though, is that quite a lot of Lemurian medicine is evidently intoxicating. They brought out some stuff that nearly got me drunk just smelling it. Even the salve seems to make them a little dopey. I think when we arrived, their captain, or whatever he is, had just taken a dose of something, and when it started to hit him he sent us away.” She grinned. “I don’t think he wanted to be tipsy in front of the powerful strangers.”

“Indeed?” Bradford said appreciatively. “I wish more of our statesmen would refrain from conducting business in such condition.”

There was a knock on the bulkhead beyond the curtain.

“Sandwiches, Cap-tan.”

“Thanks, Juan. Come in, please.” Juan stepped through the curtain and held it for Ray Mertz, the mess attendant, who carried a platter piled high with ham sandwiches. He set it on the table, then he and the steward ducked quickly back down the passageway. Everyone dug in immediately, and Sandra closed her eyes when she bit into the thick slice of ham nestled between two pieces of fresh-baked bread. With just a little mustard, it tasted heavenly. She was even hungrier than she’d thought. The Lemurians had offered them food, but it smelled strange and she wasn’t ready to trust the local fare. Silva had eaten some of the purple fruit, and she wondered absently how he was feeling about now.

“So, what else did you talk about during your second meeting?” Matt asked.

Sandra sped her chewing and swallowed at last. “Well, pretty much the main point was that their leader, Keje-Fris-Ar, wants to come aboard us here. Tomorrow.”

“Here they come!” Dowden said unnecessarily when the boat cast off and moved in their direction. Almost an hour earlier, they’d been surprised to see a large section of the Lemurian’s hull, about twenty feet wide, open and swing outward, releasing a low, wide-beamed barge. The compartment, or whatever it was, had water in it, and the boat just floated out. There it stayed for a time, already crewed, until the more important passengers were lowered into it by means of a large platform that descended from the deck above.

“That’s some trick,” murmured McFarlane, scratching the young beard on his chin. He glanced apologetically at the captain. “Structurally, I mean. It’s like they go around with a fully enclosed harbor. Makes sense, as far as they’d have to lower a boat, but the engineering problems and stresses involved must’ve been something else.”

“The structural engineering capabilities of the Lemurians are quite formidable,” said Bradford. “To construct such a colossal ship to begin with… well.” He shrugged.

Captain Reddy, carefully groomed and resplendent in his whites-as were all his officers-glanced around the ship. They’d done their best to make her presentable, but the ravages she’d undergone were evident everywhere. Even a visiting admiral would understand, but he wanted to make a big impression. It would have to do. The crew was dressed as sharply as possible, but most had dyed their whites in coffee-as ordered-at the start of the war, and the result was an unsavory mottled khaki. Now, with the passage of time, most of the coffee had leached out in the wash and they only looked dirty. He grunted. The order had come down from somebody who thought the ships would be more difficult to spot from the air without a bunch of white uniforms running around on deck. It was one of the sillier of the panicky and often contradictory orders they’d been issued right after the attacks on Pearl Harbor and Cavite. There was nothing he could do about it other than group the men who still had whites separately from those who didn’t, as if there were some great reason for it. It was all entirely symbolic, but he didn’t know how important a part symbolism might ultimately play. He spoke to the Bosun.

“Assemble your side party, Chief. I’ll join you shortly.” He absently hitched the Sam Browne to distribute the unaccustomed weight of the holstered pistol and the other… object suspended from it. He grimaced. While running an inventory of their small-arms ammunition, Campeti discovered a crate of heavy long-bladed cutlasses, pattern of 1918, that had probably been commissioned with the ship. There were four dozen of the things in heavy blue-gray canvas-wrapped scabbards, and they looked absolutely new. Gray suggested that the officers wear them so the Lemurians would see weapons they recognized. He didn’t intend it as a threatening gesture, or so he said, but to show the ’cats-even while they were surrounded by all sorts of incomprehensible things-that they shared some basic similarities.

Matt resisted the idea as ridiculous. If they had to fight with swords, a dozen of the Lemurians could slaughter them all, judging by their skill against the Grik. But Courtney Bradford weighed in on Gray’s side, surprisingly, with the comment that it might be wise to remind their visitors that they were, after all, warriors. Matt grudgingly relented and ordered all the officers, POs-and especially the Bosun-to wear one of the damn things. He had it easier. Instead of the heavy cutlass, he had his ornate Naval Academy dress sword, which he’d worn precisely twice-once at graduation and once at a friend’s wedding. He knew it was a fine blade, and it had certainly cost him enough, but even now he couldn’t imagine any eventuality that would force him to draw it in anger. He looked down at the fat barge, pitching on the choppy swell as it came alongside. Hitching his belt up again, he stepped quickly down the pilothouse steps to the deck.

Heaved to, Walker wallowed sickeningly even in these light swells, her low freeboard giving them periodic glimpses of the approaching party as the ship rolled. It was going to be tricky-and a little undignified- gaining the deck of the destroyer after the genteel fashion in which the Lemurian leaders were lowered into their barge, but there was no help for it. Besides, the creatures looked better equipped to climb the treacherous rungs than humans were. Gray took his place with the side party, Carl Bashear with him, and raised the pipe to his lips.

“You want me to do it?” Bashear whispered as the first Lemurian hopped onto the rungs and quickly neared the top.

“No, damn it. If anybody’s gonna pipe aliens aboard Walker, it’s gonna be me.”

The piercing wail of the Bosun’s pipe startled the burly Lemurian with the reddish-brown coat, but then he cocked his head at the Chief with interested recognition. He seemed even more startled when all those present saluted. He wore the same copper-scaled tunic as the day before, but the bloodstains had been cleaned and the scales had been polished to a flashing glory. Beneath the armor, he wore a long blue shirt, finely embroidered with fanciful fishes and adorned with shimmering scales like sequins around the cuffs. A long mane covered his head and extended to the sides of his face like huge muttonchops and was gathered and tied at the nape of his neck with a bright ribbon. His very ape-like feet were bound in sandals with a crisscrossing mesh of copper-studded straps extending to his knees. From a baldric across his chest hung a short, fat-bladed sword, securely tied into its scabbard with another bright ribbon formed into an elaborate bow. He looked around for a moment, as if taking everything in-the aft funnels with their wisps of smoke, the four-inch gun above, the torpedo tubes.

And, of course, the people. He looked from face to face until he recognized Matt. Then he grinned a very human grin and faced aft and saluted the flag that stood out from the short mast. He turned to Matt, still grinning, and saluted again. With evident difficulty, his mouth formed the unfamiliar words: “Meeshin ta caamaa-burd, zur?”

There were incredulous murmurs, and Matt realized his jaw had gone slack. Sandra, standing behind him, leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “We spent about an hour on that yesterday. He wanted to do it. He said he owed it to our people.”

Soon the entire Lemurian party, numbering almost a dozen, was aboard. To the surprise and delight of the assembled destroyermen, all saluted the flag and the captain. It was an important and very moving moment, and the Lemurians couldn’t have done anything that would have more thoroughly ingratiated themselves with Walker’s crew. Grimaces and glances of suspicion disappeared, and a mood of camaraderie prevailed as Matt led the delegation under the amidships deckhouse, where refreshments were laid out. It wasn’t much, but Juan, Earl Lanier, and Ray Mertz had done their best with what they had. On the stainless-steel counter running the length of the galley, a variety of light dishes were arrayed, along with carafes of iced tea.

After a brief hesitation, Keje himself tasted the tea and a grin of delight crossed his face. Whether it was the tea, the sugar, or just the novelty of ice that did the trick, it was extremely well received. Soon all the Lemurians were standing in the shade, drinking tea and exclaiming loudly in their chittering, yowelly voices, much to everyone’s delight. Gray grudgingly offered Adar a Coke. After a trusting gulp, the dignified Sky Priest spewed foam from his mouth and nose, and the crew roared with laughter. Gray patted him hesitantly as he coughed, and then took a quick gulp from the same bottle to show their visitors he hadn’t meant to poison their priest.

Ignoring the spectacle, Keje stood with the captain, eying a Vienna sausage rolled up in a slice of cheese with a toothpick stabbed through it. Bradford stood nearby, as did Shinya, ready to interpret. The Japanese officer still wore the dark blue uniform he’d had on when he was rescued, although it had been cleaned and mended as much as possible. He was the only one dressed in blue, and he stood out. Matt had contemplated having more men wear blues, in spite of the heat, to avoid drawing too much attention to the fact that Shinya was different, but he decided the men might resent it and he didn’t want to add any fuel to that fire.

“Mr. Bradford,” Matt said, “why don’t you remain here as interpreter for the crew to the Lemurian party while Lieutenant Shinya accompanies me?” They’d already decided the crew would have Mr. Bradford. “Perhaps Captain… uh… His Excellency…” Matt stopped, at a loss.

“He is correctly referred to as U-Amaki,” Tamatsu supplied.

“Yes. Well. Perhaps Captain U-Amaki and some of his officers would like to see more of the ship?”

Shinya spoke to Adar, but Keje blinked assent even before the translation was complete. He couldn’t speak the Ancient Tongue, but through his lifelong association with Adar, he’d learned to understand it well enough.

“He would be delighted,” Shinya said. “But his name is Keje-Fris-Ar. U-Amaki is his title-like ‘Captain.’”

“Oh.”

Keje, Adar, Jarrik, and Chack followed the leader of the Tail-less Ones. They were accompanied by the fat one, the female, and the dark-skinned one-who seemed different, besides just the color of his clothes. The rest of the group was left carousing and drinking the wonderful cold drink in the shade with many other Tail-less Ones.

Chack was enjoying himself, and was happy that the strange beings seemed so friendly, but he was unsure why he was there. He was proud to be chosen, of course, but he didn’t know why. He still ached from his many small wounds, just as the High Chief did, but he knew he’d fought well in the battle. Perhaps Keje honored him for that? If so, it was an honor indeed, for he’d done no more than many others. At least it was a sign that Keje harbored no ill will toward him over Selass. At the moment Selass was a subject he didn’t care to dwell on.

As the Fat One raised a heavy lid of some kind on the deck and gestured inside, Adar translated: “The Fat One-Gray is his name-says the fires that move the ship burn in that hole.”

Keje bent over and peered within, but he saw nothing except darkness. When they’d all looked, Gray fastened the lid with a spinning wheel, and they moved toward steps leading to the deck above.

Chack was conscious of constant motion as the small ship moved on the water. Up and down and side to side. It was enough to make him queasy, despite living on the water all his life. He wondered how the Tail-less Ones stood it all the time. He was unaccustomed to anything this small and cramped. He was a wing runner, and he rarely ventured forth on the barges or other small vessels, so it was disconcerting. He suppressed a shudder and tried to think of something else.

Inevitably then, his thoughts returned to Selass as they mounted the steps. Evidently she was again without a mate. Saak-Fas had disappeared in the fighting, and no one had seen him since he delivered the message sending Chack into battle. He wasn’t among the slain, or anywhere else on Home. He must have gone over the side. Chack wouldn’t mourn him, but his loss left Selass available. Strangely, he wasn’t sure how that made him feel. He wasn’t the same person she’d toyed with and rejected so short a time ago. Everything was changed. His home in the forward tower was gone. Risa, always the strong one, was weak with injury. His mother was well, but without a home for her clan. The Grik had come, but been destroyed and put to flight, and of course, they’d met these strange… what was the word? Amer-i-caans. So much that he had known and expected to remain constant was suddenly different or gone-and he’d changed perhaps most of all.

Preoccupied, tramping up the noisy steps, he nearly bumped Jarrik-Fas, who’d inexplicably halted. Shaking off his reverie, he peered around the guardsman at Keje, who’d paused at the top of the steps. Everyone else stopped, including the Amer-i-caans, to watch him. With one of his finger claws, he scraped at a reddish streak on the rail and raised it to his tongue. His eyes widened with astonishment.

“It is metal, as I suspected,” he murmured to his companions, “but what it tastes like… cannot be.”

“It is, my lord,” confirmed Adar quietly. “Iron.”

Chack’s mind reeled and he looked around in shock. “But surely, lord,” he stammered, “it cannot all be iron?”

Adar blinked sharp displeasure at Chack’s outburst. “It’s iron. All of it. It must be, for the red streaks are everywhere. Now speak no more unless you are given leave.” He sniffed. “They will think us rude.”

Keje muttered something that Chack didn’t catch and joined the Amer-i-caans waiting above.

Gray was scandalized by the Lemurians’ preoccupation with the rust. He took it as a personal affront that they should be so obvious about noticing the lack of maintenance. Shinya had spent more time among them, and he thought he understood. He spoke aside to Matt.

“Captain Reddy, they’ve just realized your ship is made of steel.”

“I think you’re right. Must be a shock too. They have iron weapons, so they know what it is, but the idea of making something this size…” He paused. “They had to know Walker was metal, ever since they set foot on her. I wonder what they thought it was?”

“Copper, most likely, Skipper,” said Gray, simmering down. “Who knows? I sure as hell don’t know how they made something the size of their ship out of wood!”

“Point.” The captain stepped into the wheelhouse and beckoned their guests to follow. Once inside, with the self-conscious bridge watch going about their duties, Keje looked through the windows, at the wheel, at all the strange and mysterious devices and the maze of conduits overhead. His eyes swept everything, recognizing the utility, if not the function, of what was clearly the control area for the American ship. He was puzzled that the utilitarianism was so extreme as to preclude decoration of any kind, but everything seemed laid out with profound practicality. To his seaman’s eye there was an aesthetic quality in that.

His gaze fell upon the chart table, and with quickening heart and mounting incredulity he recognized immediately what he saw. Adar saw it at the same instant and was staggered by the implications. With a cry, he rushed to the table and leaned protectively over the chart, his eyes sweeping back and forth, taking in the strangers’ reactions. They showed no concern except perhaps for his inexplicable behavior. He tried to grasp the chart, but something was there-something clear-between his claws and the paper he sought. What is this magic? he thought desperately. Why would they do this? Do they mock us with their power that even the Sacred Scrolls themselves are nothing but curiosities for all to gape upon without the training to understand? He looked at Keje’s stricken blinking, and the Amer-i-caans behind him, staring. They seemed bewildered. Adar sensed no hint of gloating or malice, only curiosity and concern. Even after his sudden outburst, none seized a weapon. Perhaps there was no mockery here. Perhaps there was something else? Perhaps they understood. Could it be?

Keje edged closer and peered at the chart Adar hovered over. “Their Scrolls are better than your Scrolls, Adar,” he said dryly. “Really, you must control yourself. We are their guests. They will think us rude,” he quoted.

“You go too far, Keje-Fris-Ar!” Adar retorted sharply. He glanced at the chart again. The detail was amazing! “The value is in the thing, not what is on it! You flirt with apostasy!”

“Wrong. I’m no Sky Priest, but wisdom is wisdom, regardless of the source. Is it apostasy to recognize the value of this Scroll, as they obviously do, and put it in an honored place where all may gain its wisdom? Or is it apostasy to suspect, like you do, that they might be as those Tail-less Ones of old who passed us this wisdom before?”

Matt and the others had gathered round and were watching the exchange. Clearly, the Malay Barrier chart had created a crisis of some sort, but they were at a loss to understand what it was. The ’cats plainly knew what the chart represented, but why should Adar throw such a fit?

“But to have them here, where all can see…” sputtered Adar. “It’s not right!”

“Where is it written only the Priests of the Sky may know the mysteries of the Heavens?” Keje softly asked. “Among our people, only Sky Priests can interpret the drawings in the Scrolls because they alone have the Ancient Tongue, but anyone may strive to become a Sky Priest, not so? I’ve looked upon the Scrolls myself-you showed them to me! I can even read some of what is written. Does that make me a Sky Priest-or an apostate?”

Adar was quiet for a moment while he thought. Of course Keje was right; it just didn’t seem right. He sighed.

“I apologize, my lord. It’s just…” He’d been gazing at the chart while he spoke, his eyes taking in the shapes of the islands he knew so well, when he felt he’d been physically struck. “The words!” he managed to gasp. “The words are not in the Ancient Tongue!”

Keje saw it was true. Some of the island names were the same, but there was much more writing than he remembered and it was totally unfamiliar. “Their own language?” he speculated. Adar could only nod. It must be. The Amer-i-caans still watched them, and he suspected they were becoming impatient. He would have been. “Ask them where they come from. Maybe they will even tell us.”

Adar cleared his throat and spoke the ancient words. As soon as Shinya translated, Captain Reddy peered at the chart himself. Adar knew their home couldn’t be anywhere on the scroll he saw. The Scrolls of the People were more comprehensive. Less than a third of the known world was laid out before him, and he had at least passing acquaintance with all the places shown. The meaning of his question was clear, however, because Matt put his finger on what Adar recognized as their current position and then paced away, far across the wheelhouse, to stand on the opposite side. He pointed at the deck, looking intently at Adar with his small green eyes.

“They are from the East! Beyond the world, beyond even the Great Empty Water, perhaps! The way no vessel can go!”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Brother,” Keje said with heavy sarcasm, “this vessel goes wherever it wants!”

The humans were intrigued but not overly concerned by Adar’s behavior. They assumed that he’d recognized the chart, and an example of commonality had been found.

“Ask them where they’re from,” Matt instructed. There was muttered conversation in their own language, and finally Adar pointed over the water at their ship. Matt nodded. “Of course, we suspected as much. It certainly seems self-sufficient enough for long stretches away from land. But your people must have some place, on land, where such things are built?” He spoke directly to them, even though Lieutenant Shinya was obliged to translate everything he said. “Wood only grows on land and other things-copper, cordage, things like that-can only be found ashore. Your people must have settlements where you can make repairs?” All four Lemurians looked at him for a long time after Shinya finished speaking. They seemed hesitant to answer.

Matt understood that they might not want just anyone to know where their settlements were, but he and his crew had saved them from the Grik. If they wished them ill, that was not the simplest way to show it. This logic was apparently not lost on the Lemurians, because finally Keje leaned back over the chart. Adar said something, but the Lemurian leader shook his head and placed one of his clawed fingers on the map.

“Jesus Christ!” blurted Gray. “Borneo!”

Several crewmen on the bridge muttered in surprise. Matt looked over the shorter Lemurian, where his claw touched the chart. “Well,” he said, “I believe we’ve been there once before.” He straightened and looked meaningfully at the Bosun. “Balikpapan.”

He turned back to Keje. “You have damage,” he said, and then gestured around him. “We have damage too, and need supplies. Besides, the Grik may return. We’ll help you get there, if you have no objection.”

Matt led the Lemurians on a quick tour of the rest of the ship. The only attractions he avoided were the engines and the main armaments. They passed the guns and torpedo tubes several times and, plainly, the Lemurians were interested, but despite Bradford’s advice, Matt thought they shouldn’t focus too intently on the fact that Walker was a warship. And besides, what they didn’t know about her capabilities, they couldn’t tell to others. The same was true regarding the engines. It seemed to him that the Lemurians were sophisticated enough not to attribute everything they didn’t understand to magic. But it wouldn’t hurt to let some things remain mysterious. Particularly when that mystery protected the only two advantages Walker had in this strange, screwed-up world: her speed and her weapons.

Inevitably, not all the Lemurians were content to let Walker’s secrets unfold with time and trust.

Jarrik-Fas insisted that they ask the Amer-i-caans about their amazing weapons that could destroy the Grik from afar with such speed and efficiency. Keje was reluctant, since he could tell their hosts were less than willing to discuss it now. Ever since he’d seen the chart, however, Adar had assumed Keje’s pragmatic skepticism. The reverse was true for Keje. That the Amer-i-caans had Scrolls of their own meant they almost certainly had some understanding of the Heavens. To him, that was reassuring. As different as they were, it was a sign that they were perhaps not all that different after all. Adar was in a mood to find fault, though, it seemed.

“I dislike secrets. If they would avoid speaking of their weapons, what else might they conceal?” he asked as they neared the amidships deckhouse again, with its squat four-inch guns, trained fore and aft.

Keje blinked exasperation. “A short time ago you were displeased that they display their Scrolls for all to see, and now you accuse them of being overly secretive? Brother, you contradict yourself.”

Adar grunted and showed his teeth with a youngling’s chastened grin. “I suppose you’re right, my lord. Perhaps I was dismayed by the way they display their Scrolls as if just anyone can understand them. What struck me hardest, in all honesty, was that perhaps among them anyone can. Particularly if they’re written in their own tongue. No one likes to think their life’s work is un-needed, even by another species.”

“Perhaps not all understand their Scrolls. Any one of them may be your counterpart, for all we know,” Keje speculated. “But your knowledge and value are not limited to the Scrolls. You’re a Sky Priest, after all. I doubt they could all be as conversant with the Heavens as you. It’s one thing to read a Scroll. It’s another to know the meaning. Yet another fascinating thing to learn about these creatures, in time. Besides, if they are as the ones who came before. .. of course they have Scrolls of their own!”

“Does that mean they are… gods?” Chack almost squeaked.

“Of course not!” snapped Adar. “There is but one God, silly creature! Even the ‘others’ were merely beings, as ourselves, who brought the wisdom of Heaven. They are to be exalted, but not worshiped. They admonished as much themselves. These creatures are wise as well. As wise as the others? Who is to say, but still merely beings.”

“Whatever they are, I’m glad they like us.” Keje grinned.

“I still want to know more about their weapons,” Jarrik insisted.

“Oh, very well.” Keje relented. “Ask if you must, Adar, but be discreet. I am usually the worrier, but after yesterday I’m inclined to trust these ‘Amer-i-caans.’ For now, I’m content to let them keep their weapons’ secrets, as long as they use them on our behalf.” His warning spoken, he had to admit he was as anxious to learn about the amazing weapons as they. He listened intently while the translations took place.

“They’ve asked about the guns, Captain Reddy. They want to know how they work. How they destroy things far away with only a puff of smoke and loud noise.”

Matt sighed. “They were bound to ask. I’m surprised they waited this long. Hmm. Tell them the purpose is much like their big crossbow batteries-to throw a large bolt very far. Only we propel the bolt with an explosion, uh, expanding gas-smoke, instead of spring tension. The smoke throws the bolt very far, faster than the eye can see.” He didn’t want to get into a ballistics lecture then and there, so he temporized. “A lot of the destructive force of the bolt is caused by the speed alone. Tell them it’s very involved and I’ll be happy to tell them more when we can converse more easily. Oh, also tell them how fascinated we are with their weapons, and look forward to learning more ourselves.” The creatures stared at the number two gun as they stopped almost beneath it. The four-inch hole with its spiraling lands and grooves gaped wide at the muzzle.

They rejoined the rest of the Lemurian party, who were still being fed and studied by the crew. The fraternization remained good-natured, and Matt was relieved to see everyone getting along so well. The camaraderie of their shared victory probably helped, but he suspected his destroyermen were happy to find anyone who wasn’t hostile after all they’d been through.

“If you need any assistance, we have carpenters and shipfitters aboard,” said Captain Reddy. He looked at Sandra before continuing. “Our medical division also remains at your disposal.” Sandra nodded in agreement.

Keje blinked assent when Shinya told Adar what the captain had said, and he replied, “I would like to leave one with you so we can better learn your speech. I believe, with better understanding, the friendship between us will grow and become…” He grinned. “Less inconvenient.” He gestured Chack forward, and the young Lemurian stepped up with some hesitation. “This one I will leave. Chack-Sab-At. He is not only a worthy person, but I’ve just recently discovered he’s a brave and skillful warrior.”

The statement was made without irony, and Chack couldn’t decide if he was more surprised by the honor or the words of praise. Or was it just an excuse to get him away from Selass? For some reason, as likely as he’d have considered that a few days before, he was no longer sure. He was uncertain about too many things lately. “I won’t fail you, my lord,” he murmured.

“He’ll be welcome,” Matt said through Tamatsu.

“Excellent. Now, noble as young Chack is, he is small recompense for your generosity. Is there nothing we can do for you? You mentioned supplies? And repairs?”

“Our supplies are fine for now, although if you can spare some of your fruit, we’d like to try it.” Matt gestured around and shrugged. “As you can see, we don’t have space for gardens. The only other thing that might ease my mind is if you can tell me where to find the black substance you use to coat your stays and shrouds and seal your seams. Is it available where we’re going? At your settlement?”

Keje was silent as Tamatsu interpreted, but then looked about with surprise. “You have leaks? I was not aware you had a use for gish. Of course. We carry much, just for that purpose. And yes, it is abundant where we go.” He made a chittering sound that Matt now recognized as a chuckle. “At the trading land, it bubbles from the ground!”

When Tamatsu finally interpreted Keje’s words, via Adar, for the first time he could remember, he saw the captain’s lips spread into a genuine grin.

“Well! In that case, why don’t we all have another glass of tea?”

The next week involved backbreaking activity for some, as work parties constantly plied between Walker and the Lemurian ship, and abject boredom for others, as the destroyer described slow, fuel-efficient circles around the plodding behemoth. Only the number four boiler was lit, but it provided more than enough steam for the monotonous six-knot circuits. With only two wings Salissa-or Big Sal, as almost everyone called her now-could average only three or four knots herself. If Walker went that slow, in the long swells of the Java Sea, she’d barely have steerageway and would roll her guts out.

To Matt, it seemed that Chack was constantly nearby, always out of the way but always there. Watching. In reality, he spent more time with Sandra, Garrett, and Sergeant Alden. Matt had no time to teach him English, and certainly none to learn Lemurian, but Chack was learning fast from his other acquaintances, and Matt understood him better each day.

Some of the men spent a lot of time on the ’Cat ship as well. Bradford practically lived there, and the English lessons were well under way. A lot of the men came back using Lemurian words for things-which drove the Bosun nuts. He never complained about Chinese or Filipino words, but for some reason he took offense to the “jabbering away like a damn cat-monkey.” Only after Matt quietly explained that he wanted the men to learn the language did he relent.

Chack slept in the forward berthing compartment with the crew and ate what they ate and generally got along quite well. They’d adopted him, like a pet or mascot at first, but as he learned to speak English they began to realize he wasn’t a pet, and that although he was small, he was probably as strong as Silva. His status was blurred. Not a pet and not a destroyerman-but he was becoming a shipmate.

In contrast to Chack’s treatment, Shinya still faced open hostility, although his presence-and continued existence-had gained a meager level of acceptance. Strangely, that probably had as much to do with Silva and Alden as anyone. The two men didn’t like the Jap, but a growing respect was evident. Matt hoped the men would lighten up eventually. Lieutenant Shinya was proving valuable, and not only as a translator. When not engaged as such, he often toiled with Sandison in the workshop on the condemned torpedoes. He wasn’t a torpedoman, but he loved machines. Bernie actually did seem to like him. He certainly appreciated his help. If anyone could ever crack the ice between Shinya and the crew, the engaging torpedo officer from Idaho would be the one.

On the bridge, Matt glanced at his watch and looked at Lieutenant Garrett. “Sound general quarters, if you please.”

“Aye, aye, sir. General quarters! General quarters!” the gunnery officer repeated in a raised voice. Electrician’s Mate 3rd Class Mike Raymond activated the alarm and put on the headset at the talker’s station, plunking a helmet on his head while the alarm reverberated through the ship. Chack, standing nearby, snatched a helmet and put it on as well. He looked slightly comical since it was much too large and covered his catlike ears. He grinned happily and blinked in excitement. Matt learned in one of his evening sessions with Bradford that Lemurians conveyed much the same meanings by blinking that humans did with eyebrow/facial expressions. It was like emotional Morse code. He wondered if they were born with the ability or had to learn it. At least it made more sense than Gray’s theory that they all had a nervous tick, but he had no idea what the blinks meant, and except for their grins, Lemurian faces remained opaque and stony to his perception.

Chack cinched the chin strap and exuberantly scampered up the ladder to the fire-control platform and his “reserve lookout” post. There was no mistaking his body language-he was clearly enjoying himself. Seconds later, reports filtered in while Matt gazed at his watch. Finally, the last department reported and he smiled to himself. Better, he thought. Not great, but shorthanded as they were… He shrugged. Ever since the battle with the Grik he’d run twice-daily drills. Not only did it break the monotony and keep the crew on their toes, but it reminded them that USS Walker was still a United States Navy ship-wherever the rest of that Navy happened to be.

“Well done, Mr. Garrett. Pass the word; all departments have improved over their last time. You may secure from general quarters.”

Spanky tapped a pressure gauge on number four and grunted noncommittally. Chief Harvey Donaghey, the assistant engineer, had reported for the division while he inspected the cantankerous boiler during the exercise. So far, it was operating perfectly. Number two was in reserve, and number three was cold for the first time since they’d made their dash from Surabaya. When he peeked inside, he wasn’t at all happy about the condition of the firebricks. A near miss must’ve shaken stuff loose, he decided. He glanced up and saw that, as usual, the Mice were watching from the gloom. He sighed.

“Nothin’ wrong with number four,” Isak said. “Don’t know why you don’t like her. We gonna be somewhere we can tear down number three anytime soon?”

“We could do it now, but it wouldn’t be easy.” Gilbert glowered. “Would’ve been nice to put into Surabaya.”

“Surabaya ain’t there, boys,” Spanky said-again. The Mice blinked at him.

“All he said was it would have been nice,” Isak muttered.

They nearly had put in, the day after their first visit from the ’Cats. Not because they expected it to be there, but just to see. Captain Reddy finally decided against it, for several reasons. First, of course, was fuel. There was no use wasting it for a sightseeing trip. Second, Surabaya was inhabited, according to what Bradford had learned, but the people there weren’t “of the sea,” whatever that meant, and weren’t necessarily friendly. It was strongly implied that if Walker steamed into the harbor unannounced, the consequences might be awkward. After all, even Big Sal’s people had thought Walker was some new Grik ship at first. Finally, there was the potential damage to morale to consider. Seeing someplace like Surabaya-or someplace where Surabaya should be-was yet another trauma that the captain would sooner put off.

Java was over there, though. Spanky had seen it receding on the horizon to the south. But even at a distance, he could tell it wasn’t the Java he’d known. There were no picket ships or minelayers, no freighters loaded with weapons and supplies. No cranes and docks and filthy, oily water. No PBYs occasionally flying patrol and no haze from the industry-or smoke from fires caused by Japanese bombs. Of course, there weren’t any Japs either.

As always, the Mice flustered him by jumping from one subject to another. For once, it was just as well.

“How come we ain’t got a monkey-cat? Damn deck-apes have one. Why can’t we?” Isak complained.

“’Apes don’t have one either. They’re not pets. They’re allies.”

“What? Like Limeys?”

“Yeah, sort of like that. Besides, it’s too hot. I expect if one came down here, he’d die. They have fur, you know.”

The Mice looked at each other. “Fur?”

Spanky eyed them more closely. “Haven’t you seen one? Haven’t you even seen the one that lives aboard?” The two firemen shook their heads. “Damn, boys! You’ve got to get out of here once in a while!”

At dusk, Keje stood with Adar, Jarrik, and Kas-Ra-Ar on the battlement, now cleaned of all evidence of battle. They couldn’t forget the fighting, however, because of the charred, gaping wound that had once been the forward tower, tripod, and wing. There was also the constant smoke from the furnaces that carried the souls of their lost ones to the Heavens. Ordinarily, there would have been a single pyre for all, and the funeral would have been somber but festive. The dead had gone to a better place, after all. But there were so many, and their loss was so keenly felt, that Adar could speak the words, but none could summon the customary gladness. Also, since only the furnaces could be used, the “Rising” went on and on, and the smoke was a constant reminder of all they’d lost. Even so, repairs continued, and the sounds of mauls, saws, and axes reached them over the breeze from aft. Some Amer-i-caans still worked too, even though their last boat of the day had left hours ago. The Tail-less Ones didn’t seem to do anything by half measures, even when it came to friendship.

Keje was thankful. So many of Salissa’s strong young people had been taken that without the Amer-i-caan methods for moving heavy objects and debris, he doubted they’d have managed so well. He watched with admiration while cranes made from the charred lower portions of the tripod easily lifted huge pieces from where they’d fallen when the tower collapsed into the lower parts of the ship. The tower’s survivors now lived with the other wing clans, but so great were their losses in battle that the other two wings were still understrength. He’d hoped this would be the season for the people of Salissa to branch out-for the Home to have a daughter-but that wouldn’t happen now. They didn’t have the people, and they’d be lucky to find the resources to repair Salissa-much less build a new Home.

He noticed a figure leaning against the rail, staring at the iron ship. It was Selass. She’d spoken little since her mate disappeared, and he wondered if she mourned him. Saak-Fas had been disagreeable, but he was young and powerful and possibly even attractive. He could see how his daughter might grieve even though their joining was so brief. He shrugged. She would recover and, in time, mate again. Perhaps even to the young wing runner of the Sab-At clan? There was much more to Chack than Keje had once thought. He’d been misguided to discourage that match.

“My lord?”

Keje realized that Jarrik had been speaking. “I’m sorry, cousin. My mind roamed. Forgive my rudeness and repeat yourself.” Adar blinked mild reproof.

“We were discussing the Amer-i-caan ship, lord.”

“Ah. It does dominate most of our conversations of late. By all means, continue.”

Jarrik shrugged aside his chagrin. “But if their ship, this ‘Waa-kur,’ is indeed iron, how could it possibly float? Our swords and those of the Grik do not float, nor does anything else made of iron that I know.”

“Copper can be made to float, and it’s even heavier than iron,” Adar said smugly. “Cast a drinking cup into a barrel. Does it not float? Home is sheathed in copper, yet we float as well. I do not marvel at the possibility of an iron ship, but the fact of it. That is perhaps their greatest mystery and their most significant advantage. The skill to work so much iron!”

“What about their weapons?” challenged Jarrik bluntly. “Their weapons are iron too. From the big weapons on their ship to the small ones they carry. The principle is the same for all, I think, and the pertinent parts are all of iron.”

“I marvel at their weapons, but I confess greater envy for their speed,” Keje said.

“What need we of speed?” Jarrik asked. “We live on the sea and by the sea. If we flew to and fro with such speed as theirs, we couldn’t hunt the gri-kakka or even launch the boats.”

“They do not always fly, and they slow to launch their smaller craft- which also move without wings or oars,” Keje pointed out. “But if we had such speed, we would never have lost so many people. The Grik could not have caught us.”

“True,” agreed Adar, “but I’ve been wondering something, and Jarrik’s thoughts about the fish hunt reinforce my-I hesitate to call them concerns, but…”

Keje frowned at him and blinked impatience. Since the incident with the Scrolls, Adar had become the skeptic. “What troubles you about our new friends now, besides their impious treatment of Scrolls?”

Adar looked uncertain. “I’m not sure, and I’m less concerned about the Scroll issue than I was, although other Sky Priests may be less understanding. I’ve yet to form an opinion regarding their piety, but it’s clear that they have more Scrolls than we. I greedily learn their tongue so I can make sense of them. Bradford has explained much, and although it’s impossible, I’m sure he actually believes they have Scrolls mapping the entire world! Even the bottom!” Adar chuckled. “For such a learned creature, he harbors some unusual notions!”

Keje looked at his friend, amused. “What, do Amer-i-caans believe the world is flat?”

Adar blinked a negative, but couldn’t conceal a gentle grin. “No, lord, but he-and perhaps others-does not understand the most basic Laws of Things. That sweet water falls from the sky as a gift from the Heavens but, as it sours and turns to salt, it gets heavier and slowly slides off to the side of the world until it falls off.” He grinned wider and quoted an old cliche. “No one can stand on the bottom of the world.” The others laughed.

“Do their silly notions concern you, Brother?” Keje asked.

Adar’s grin quickly faded. “No, lord. Two things brought the question to mind, and before you ask me what question, let me proceed. First, as far as we know, the Amer-i-caans do not hunt gri-kakka, or any fish at all. Nor do they grow crops. As amazing as their ship is, it’s very small-which I must say became quite evident after a very short time-and dependent upon gish for fuel. That’s the smoke from their pipes. Surely you recognize the stink? It’s burning gish. I don’t know how it works, but they must have gish, and quite a lot of it.”

Keje blinked. “So? That’s no problem. We know where there is much gish and they are welcome to it for helping us.”

“Of course, but my point is, the Amer-i-caans are tied to the land by necessity. They eat only things of the land, as does their ship. They cannot be a true, self-sufficient, seafaring race such as we. I also know they don’t spring from any land I’ve seen, and together we’ve seen it all.” He held up his hand. “Second, and perhaps most striking, they have only two females. Not only is that obviously far too few, but they are not even mated.”

“Most unusual,” agreed Keje, “and perhaps unnatural. But I had the impression that the first healer-their ‘high’ healer, I suppose-was mated to their leader. The times we have seen them together, she seems to argue with him enough! Perhaps among them, only leaders may mate?”

“Not so, lord. She and the other female healer are not mated.”

They were all silent a moment, pondering.

“Well. I can certainly understand your perplexity, but what about this is sinister?”

“I never suggested it was sinister, lord. Merely strange-and in keeping with my question. When their healer came to help our wounded, she was obviously shocked to learn that many of our warriors are female, that we make no distinction regarding them when it comes to fighting. I asked Bradford about this, and he confirmed that among them, females do not fight.”

“Go on,” Keje prompted.

“Their ship bristles with weapons and has no obvious means of support. There are no females aboard, except two healers who do not fight because they’re not supposed to.” Adar looked at the others and paused to convey significance. The sun had almost vanished, but they still saw the destroyer cruising lazily, effortlessly, ahead. The reflected glare from the last rays of light hid her rust streaks and other imperfections. A single wisp of smoke floated from the aftermost pipe, and heat shimmered at the top. The curious piece of cloth they called a “flag” flapped tautly from the small mast that could have little other purpose than to fly it. “With this evidence, the only conclusion I can draw is that the Amer-i-caan ship has only one purpose: it’s a ship meant entirely for war.” He sighed. “What manner of people, besides the Grik, would build such a ship, and why so formidable? Did you see that many of the holes they patched were larger than the holes in their weapons? It strikes me that they have been shot at by something with bigger ‘guns’ than theirs. The Grik have nothing that would do that, or they would have used it on us. Besides, they claim to know even less about the Grik than we.” Adar frowned and his eyes rested speculatively on the dark shape as the sun sank from view.

“So what is this question of yours, after all?” Keje asked.

“Only this: have we befriended a flasher-fish, only to find a gri-kakka on its tail?”

Reveille blared in the forward berthing space at 0400 to signal the morning watch. Sleepy men groused and cursed, rolling from their three-tiered racks. Chack, however, practically vaulted from his-one of the uppermost-and quickly donned the white T-shirt that Alan Letts had given him to make him look more Navy-like than the red kilt alone-his only other garment. “Good morning, good morning!” he chanted cheerfully, weaving through the dressing men and scampering up the companionway.

“Ain’t natural,” grumped Rodriguez, who’d finally been restored to full duty. “Even monkey-cats can’t be that happy to wake up every day. He’s settin’ a bad example. It’ll ruin morale, I tell you.”

Elden grinned. “Sleep on deck and you won’t have to watch him in the morning.”

“Hell, I would! But every time, I get woke up drenched by a squall.”

“You’d rather get woke up drenched by sweat?”

Rodriguez shrugged. “This close to the equator, don’t much matter where you sleep, you’re gonna do that. Sometimes I actually pity those damn snipes. I bet it hits a hundred and forty in the fireroom today.”

“Hey, man, God didn’t make ’em snipes. If we were in the North Atlantic they’d be toasty warm and wouldn’t feel sorry for us, out on the icy deck.”

“Icy deck!” moaned Leo Davis dreamily from his rack. Ever since Lieutenant Tucker had applied the Lemurian salve to his leg, he’d rapidly improved. So much, in fact, that some began to suspect him of malingering. He stretched and smiled. “Is it morning already? Which one of you fellas’ll bring me breakfast in bed?”

Elden pitched a rancid sock on his chest, and Davis yelped and squirmed, trying to get out from under it without touching it. “Damn you! I’m an invalid!”

Chief Gray poked his head down the companionway. “Move it, you apes! Skipper’s lookin’ at his watch! If you ain’t at your GQ stations in one minute he’s gonna throw a fit!”

“I wonder why we’re still doin’ that?” Elden pondered aloud after Gray disappeared. Every morning watch, Walker’s crew manned their general quarters posts until two hours after dawn so they’d be prepared while the ship was most vulnerable-when an enemy might see her silhouette before her lookouts saw the enemy. After that, she steamed under condition III alert, with half her weapons manned all day. “Ain’t no Jap subs out there,” Elden continued. “Ain’t no Jap ships or planes. Ain’t no Jap Navy. Hell, there ain’t no Japs, ’cept ours!”

“I don’t know why, but the Skipper does, and he’s the only one that has to,” Rodriguez said, tying his shoe and hurrying for the ladder. “C’mon, or the snipes’ll clean out the galley!”

Chack happily munched the strange yellowish-white substance rolled in a slice of bread. He’d heard them call it “eggs,” but Mertz made it from powder, so they must have been joking. He liked the way Amer-i-caans joked, and they did it all the time. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if they were joking or not, however. After it was cooked, the stuff did taste a little like eggs, and he particularly liked it with salt and “caatch-up.”

Finished eating, he climbed to the fire-control platform, then up the little ladder to his new battle station on the searchlight platform above it. It was still dark, but just a trace of red tinged the eastern sky. A stiff breeze cooled him, and he felt a sense of exhilaration and speed, even at only six knots. That was still about as fast as he’d ever gone before, and Walker’s relatively small size magnified the sensation wonderfully. He knew it was only a fraction of what she was capable of, and he yearned to be aboard when she “stretched her legs,” as his Amer-i-caan friends described it.

Lieutenant Garrett appeared on the platform below and smiled up at Chack.

“Good morning, Loo-ten-aant Gaar-ret! Morning-day good!”

“Indeed it is. Good morning to you as well. Why don’t you light along to the crow’s nest and take the first watch? Sing out if those keen eyes of yours spot anything. Understand?” Chack blinked with pleasure and looked at the tiny bucket far above. He’d spent most of his life much higher, but it was the highest point on the ship and he was thrilled by the novelty and-in his mind-the prestige of the post.

“Crow’s nest? Me?”

“That’s right, Chack. Crow’s nest. You. Up you go.”

“You want I go higher? I go top of pole?”

Garrett chuckled. “No, the crow’s nest is high enough.” He pantomimed putting on the headset. “You have to be able to talk and hear. But don’t talk unless you see something!”

“Ay, ay!” Chack said, and shot up the ladder. Garrett shook his head, still smiling, as he watched the Lemurian climb. The long, swishing tail did make him look like a cat, or for that matter, a monkey. Whatever he looked like, he was becoming a pretty good hand, and nobody came close to matching his enthusiasm or agility. He was wondering with amusement if they could recruit more like him, when all weapons reported “manned and ready” and he reported for his division.

The sky went from red to yellow-gray and visibility began to improve. The other lookouts scanned for any menace with their binoculars, and a quarter mile off their port quarter, Big Sal began to take shape. The gray became suffused with gold that flared against the bottoms of fleecy clouds and cast a new coastline into stark relief off the port bow. Ahead lay the Makassar Strait and, beyond that, Celebes. But right now all eyes were glued to the landfall. Matt paced onto the port bridgewing and joined the lookout there.

“Borneo, Skipper,” said the man in a tone of mixed excitement and apprehension. They had almost exactly the same view as when they’d last seen it, astern, after the Battle of Makassar Strait-just a few months before. Then they were running as fast as they could, with the enemy nipping at their heels. They’d been scared to death but flushed with elation after the only real “victory” the Asiatic Fleet had achieved: against the Japanese invasion force at Balikpapan. They sank several transports and a destroyer-just Walker and four other four-stackers-but it hadn’t been nearly enough, and they were lucky to escape with their skins. They should have had a larger haul, but a lot of their torpedoes either never hit their targets or failed to explode when they did hit. That was when they first suspected something was wrong with them. Now they were returning, but not like they’d imagined they would.

“It looks the same,” said the lookout, then added with a grin, “only there’s no smoke from burning Nips.”

“There was plenty of smoke,” Matt agreed, “but we wouldn’t have seen it from here. Balikpapan’s still a hundred and fifty miles away.”

They heard a whoop over the crow’s nest comm. “Surfuss taagit! Surfuss taagit!”

After a shocked delay, the frustrated talker responded. “Where? Where?! What bearing? Who the hell’s up there foolin’ around? Maintain proper procedures!” There was no response. Matt looked up at the crow’s nest, and there was Chack, not in it but on top of it, standing as high as he could and waving both arms over his head. He uttered a low-pitched, but astonishingly loud ululating cry. He was signaling something or someone ahead, and Matt turned and stared as hard as he could, scanning back and forth. It was that tough time of morning when submarines were so dangerous. The sky was growing brighter, but the sea was almost black. Unless something was silhouetted, it was practically invisible.

“There, sir!” cried the lookout. “Not three hundred yards away, dead ahead! A boat!”

Matt shifted his gaze and sure enough, a boat appeared in his binoculars. It was about forty feet long, with two tripod masts and junklike sails. It was also ridiculously close. There was no silhouette since the masts were short and Borneo provided a backdrop. He was amazed that even Chack had seen it. “Helm, right ten degrees. All engines stop!”

“Right ten degrees, all stop, aye,” came the reply. Matt studied the boat and saw figures now, scampering excitedly about.

“More ’Cats,” he said. “I’ll be damned.”

“Skipper,” said Rick Tolson, “look a little to the left.” Matt did so, and to his surprise he saw another boat. And another! “They’re fishermen!” Tolson exclaimed with complete certainty. “Coastal fishermen! Look!” Each small ship had one end of a net hooked to its side, while the other was supported by a long boom. As they watched, the boom on the farthest boat began to rise. The end of the net drew closed as the boom rose higher, and a multitude of flopping, thumping, silvery shapes poured onto the deck. Nimble Lemurians waded among them with clubs that rose and fell. At a shouted warning, a few club wielders stopped and looked in shock at the destroyer coasting toward them. Chack silenced his booming cry, but jabbered excitedly at the fishermen as they drew near.

“Mr. Tolson, relieve the crow’s nest lookout and send him to the fo’c’sle to talk more easily with the fishing boats. Use the engines to maintain position to windward of them, if you please.”

Moments later, Chack was on the fo’c’sle, leaning forward and conversing with the nearest boat. Its crew hadn’t raised their net and they all stood, amazed, looking up at him.

“He sure got there quick enough,” Tolsen observed. “My God, I think he slid down the forestay!”

Matt chuckled. “Well, thanks to his keen eyes, we didn’t ram anybody. But do have a word with him about procedures. The last thing we need is other guys trying a stunt like that-which they will-just to prove that if he can do it, they can too.” He looked back at the fishing boats, their crews now shouting excitedly back at Chack. Beyond them in the distance, clearer now, was Borneo. Lush and green and familiar. And yet… It was almost like seeing a photograph of a place he’d been. It looked like it, but it wasn’t it. He remembered what Bradford had said about the “wild” Grik they’d dissected: judge it by what it is like, not what it looks like. There was a profound difference. He wondered how different Borneo would be.

They saw many more boats that day. Most were fishermen, like the first they met, and Chack explained that land People fished only mornings and evenings when the smaller fish came to the shallows where the gri-kakka felt confined. The big plesiosaurs could go shallow, but were usually content to linger in deeper water and wait for food to come to them. Most of the boats they saw weren’t designed or equipped to hunt the brutes, althoughtheir fat was a valuable commodity. That was a job for a Home. Like all Homes, Big Sal’s People did hunt the big fish, and the result was her primary trade asset-gri-kakka oil. Much of her store was lost in the fire, but hopefully enough remained to finance her repairs.

Some boats ran away as soon as they sighted them, and some went on ahead after a short conference with Chack. A few stayed and took station on Big Sal as they made their way north-northeast. Occasionally, curious crews ventured to gawk at Walker and her outlandish folk, but generally they avoided the destroyer.

Late the next afternoon, as the sun neared the horizon and set the low clouds aglow, they entered Balikpapan Bay. For the first time since they’d seen her, Big Sal’s massive sails descended and scores of great sweeps extended from her sides like the legs of a giant centipede and she propelled herself against the ebbing tide right into the mouth of the bay. Matt wasn’t sure what he’d expected. A small settlement perhaps. Chack and the others often referred to Balikpapan as the “land colony,” and he guessed that made him think in diminutive terms. But the civilization they beheld was a virtual metropolis. Two more Homes, similar to Big Sal, were moored in the broad harbor, and hundreds of smaller vessels plied back and forth. A long pier jutted from a point of land almost exactly where they’d last seen Japanese troopships burning. The sensation was surreal. Lemurian fishing boats were tied to it now, and beyond the pier was a city.

That was the only word to describe it, even if the architecture was… unusual. Wooden warehouses lined the waterfront, but beyond were high pagoda-like structures much like Big Sal’s towers. Most were just a few stories tall, though broader than those on the ship, but a few reached quite stunning heights. These were multitiered, and each “story” was slightly smaller than that directly beneath it, which gave them the appearance of extremely tall and skinny Aztec temples. Otherwise, the pervasive “pagodas” continued to make a generally Eastern impression.

The most unusual architectural feature, however, was that every building in view-except the warehouses-was built on massive stilts, or pilings, that supported the structures at least a dozen feet above the ground. In the open space beneath them was an enormous market, or bazaar, that had no apparent organization at all. As far as they could see from Walker’s bridge, it occupied and constituted the entire “lower level” of the city. The market was teeming with thousands of Lemurians, coming and going, engaging in commerce, and deporting themselves more like the denizens of Shanghai than the ’Cats they’d come to know. Color was everywhere. Most of the buildings were painted, and large tapestries and awnings were hung beneath and, in many cases, stretched between them. The dominant colors were reds and blues, but gold was prevalent as well, and the whole thing starkly contrasted with the dark green jungle beyond and the dirty, gray-blue bay.

“Looks like Chefoo,” Gray murmured, mirroring Matt’s thoughts.

The arrival of the destroyer and the battle-damaged Home hadn’t gone unnoticed. Hundreds of spectators lined the quay and watched as the two ships approached. Small boats sailed back and forth, jockeying for a view, and twice Matt ordered full astern to avoid running over the more intrepid or foolhardy sightseers. The smell of the city reached them on the gentle breeze, and although it wasn’t unpleasant, it too was somewhat alien. Riotous, unknown spices on cooking meat and fish predominated, although there was a hint of exotic flowers and strange vegetation. All competed with the normal harbor smells of salt water, dead fish, and rotting wood. There was even a tantalizing undertone of creosote.

Big Sal continued past the wharf, the long sweeps dipping, until she reached a point opposite a large, empty dock with more warehouses and a tall wooden crane. There she backed water and ever so slowly began to inch her massive bulk closer to the dock. Lemurians scampered about in a very recognizable way, and huge mooring lines were passed to the ship.

“We’ll anchor two hundred yards outboard of Big Sal, Boats,” Matt said. “Let’s keep a little water between us and shore until we find out what’s what.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper,” Gray responded and clattered down the ladder. Dowden conned the ship to the point Matt instructed, and with a great booming rattle, the new starboard anchor dropped to the silty bottom of Balikpapan Bay.

“Maintain condition three, Mr. Dowden,” Matt ordered as he turned to leave the bridge. “I’m heading over to Big Sal. Mr. Garrett, Chack, Lieutenant Tucker, and two armed men will accompany me. Pass the word, if you please: dress whites and crackerjacks.”

They motored across to Big Sal and made the long climb to its deck. Matt had been aboard several times now, but he was only just becoming accustomed to the sheer size of the ship. Courtney Bradford and the destroyermen who’d been helping aboard greeted them. Matt sent Bradford back to Walker to make himself presentable and told him to return in thirty minutes.

As usual, they went through the boarding ritual, but as soon as they had, the Lemurian who’d given permission raced off. When he returned, he was accompanied by Adar and High Chief Keje himself. Both were dressed in garments representative of their status. Adar wore the same cape or “Sky Priest suit” he’d worn every time Matt had seen him. Keje wore his polished copper armor over an even finer tunic than the one he’d first worn aboard Walker. Gold-wire embroidery graced every cuff, and his polished and engraved copper helmet now boasted the striated plumage from the tail of a Grik warrior. A sweeping red and gold cape was clasped at his throat by a chain of polished Grik hind claws. He won’t let anyone forget that Big Sal broke the Grik for the first time, Matt thought.

Matt and the rest of his party, including Chack, saluted him. Matt still thought it appropriate, since Keje wasn’t just the captain of a ship, but was, in effect, a head of state. Bradford was trying to sort out all the nuances of Lemurian society, but so far it seemed rather confusing. The closest analogy he’d come up with was that of the ancient Greek city-states, or possibly even the United States under the Articles of Confederation. Each Lemurian ship was considered a country unto itself, with its own laws and sometimes very distinctive culture. The Trade Lands or Land Colonies had the same status, but as they grew in size, they also grew in economic influence. So, although still theoretically equal, some of the more tradition-minded Homes resented the upstart “mud-treaders.”

“Greetings, U-Amaki, Keje-Fris-Ar,” he said, and Keje grinned widely, returning the salute.

“Greeting you, Cap-i-taan Riddy. Bad-furd teech I speek you words. Good, eh?”

Matt grinned back. “Very good, Your Excellency. I regret I haven’t done nearly as well learning your language.” Keje was still grinning, but clearly he hadn’t caught everything Matt said. Chack elaborated in his own language.

“Ah. Good! Chack speek for we! He learn good!” Matt nodded at Keje’s understatement. Chack really had made remarkable progress. He’d seen people pick up enough of a new language to get by with in a week, through total immersion, but he’d never seen anyone learn one as well as Chack in so short a time.

“He has indeed.”

They waited companionably until Bradford returned. All the while, locals came aboard and talked excitedly with Keje’s people. Many were shipwrights, looking at damage they expected to be commissioned to repair. But most were just visitors who wanted to hear the story of how it happened, and wanted most of all to stare at the strange people with no tails who came from the ship without wings. The decks of Home had taken on a decidedly festive, holiday-like atmosphere.

“What’ll happen now?” Matt asked when their party was complete. The answer ultimately translated that they would soon pay their respects to “U-Amaki Ay Baalkpan,” Nakja-Mur, where they would eat and drink and tell their tale. In addition to the fact that they had a wondrous tale to tell, it had been more than two years since they’d been here, and the local potentate was somehow related to Keje. There would be much to celebrate.

At the mention of “drink” and “celebrate” Matt considered sending the ratings back to the ship, but finally decided against it. They didn’t seem the least inclined to go haring off on their own, and at least Silva wasn’t among them. He doubted Lemurian society was quite prepared for the likes of Dennis Silva on the loose. God knew his men deserved liberty after their ordeal, but he wanted to learn a bit more about this place before he granted it.

A procession was forming in the waist and nearly every ’Cat on Big Sal was part of it. Bright kilts and garish costumes were the uniform of the day, and the tumult and chaos of the happy, grinning throng was almost as loud as the battle against the Grik. There’d be liberty for them, at least, and they were prepared to make the most of it.

“All Amer-i-caans not come land?” Keje asked in his stilted English.

“No, Your Excellency, not yet. My ship is very tired and has many needs. This is the first time she has stopped among friends where it’s safe to make repairs. There’s much to do.”

“Work tomorrow! Tonight is glory-party. Friends meet friends!”

“Perhaps later,” Matt demurred. With a polite but brittle smile he excused himself and stepped to the rail, where he looked out to his anchored ship in the dwindling light. Even to his prejudiced eye she looked physically exhausted. When he had first assumed command of DD-163, she’d seemed old-fashioned and undergunned, but in spite of that she’d given the impression that she tugged at her leash like a nostalgic thoroughbred-past her prime but not yet out to pasture. Now she just looked worn-out. Rust streaked her sides from stem to stern, and the hasty repairs stood out like running sores. A continuous jet of water gushed from her bilge as the overworked pumps labored to keep her leaky hull afloat. The anchor chain hung slack, and instead of straining against it she looked burdened by the weight. He was surprised by a stabbing sense of sadness and concern.

Sandra had joined him, unnoticed in the hubbub. “A coat of paint and she’ll be good as new,” she said brightly, guessing his thoughts. He looked at her pretty, cheerful face, but saw the concern in her eyes. His brittle smile shattered like an egg dropped on the deck, and he saw her expression turn to anguish. For an instant her compassion was more than he could bear. He forced a grin that was probably closer to a grimace, but as she continued to look at him, her hand suddenly on his arm, his face slowly softened into a wistful smile. How did she do that? In a single, sharp, wrenching moment, she’d stripped his veneer and bared his inner torment, but with only the slightest touch, she’d buried it again. Deeper than before.

“It’ll take more than a coat of paint, I’m afraid,” he whispered. He saw Keje beyond her, motioning at the spot beside him. “Looks like they’re ready to go.” Unwilling to break the contact, he crooked his elbow and held his arm out for her. “Care to join me?”

Keje and Adar, along with Matt and Sandra, threaded their way through the throng and took places at the head of the procession. Bradford was several paces back, behind the wing clan chiefs and Keje’s other officers. Chack and Garrett were with him, as were the two other destroyermen. They weren’t carrying rifles, but they had sidearms and the ridiculous cutlasses. Bradford wasn’t wearing one, even though they were as much his idea as Gray’s. The one time he did, he’d somehow managed to cut himself without even drawing it completely from its scabbard. He wasn’t wearing a pistol either, but only because he’d forgotten it when he changed his clothes. Captain Reddy wore his Academy sword. With many hoots and jubilant cries from the ship as well as the dock, the procession began to move and they marched down the gangway, into the teeming city.

The festivities were heard across the water, beyond Big Sal, where Walker rested at last. Spanky McFarlane wiped greasy hands on a rag tucked into his pocket. His sooty face was streaked with sweat. “Sounds like a hell of a party,” he said, staring at the shore.

“Yup,” said Silva, and he spat a stream of tobacco juice over the side. Stites leaned on the rail by the number two gun, a cigarette between his lips. Spanky fished a battered pack out of his shirt pocket and shook one out. Silva handed him a Zippo. “Think we’re gonna get fuel here?” he asked.

“Dunno. Hope so. We’re down to seven thousand gallons, so we ain’t looking for it anywhere else.”

“Not without burning wood, I hear,” Stites put in. Spanky glowered at him. “I reckon if anybody can squeeze oil out of the monkey-cats, the Skipper will. He’s done okay.”

“No arguments there,” Silva grunted. “I just wish I knew what we’re gonna have to do to get it-and what we’re gonna do then.”

Spanky looked at him curiously. “What difference would it make if you did?”

Silva grinned. “None, I guess.” He walked to the rail and leaned on it beside Stites. “Might be fun to go ashore. Kick up my heels.” His face darkened. “Ain’t no women, though. That’s gonna get tough, fast.”

“All them other nurses gone on Mahan,” Stites grumped, “and the only two dames in the whole wide world is officers. Where’s the justice in that?”

“Maybe there’re women somewhere,” encouraged Spanky. “The Skipper thinks so. Those lizard ships were human enough, and the monkey-cats speak Latin, of all things. We can’t be the only people who ever wound up here.”

“Then we better find fuel quick so we can start lookin’ for ’em,” Stites muttered emphatically.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Silva reflected. “Some of them cat-monkey gals are kinda cute, if you don’t mind that furry, European style.”

Stites looked at him with wide eyes. “Shit, Dennis, you’re one sick bastard!” After a moment, though, he scratched his cheek. “’Course, after a while, who knows?”

Spanky cleared his throat. He knew-well, suspected-the men were joking and that was fine. But the joke was barbed and reflected a very real concern. Best keep it a joke for now. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Strikes me they have higher standards, and I doubt you’d measure up. A goat wouldn’t be satisfied with a deck-ape.”

Silva affected offense. “Now, sir, that’s no way for an officer to talk. Downright uncharitable. Keepin’ all the goats to yourselves might deestroy the perfect harmony between the apes and snipes!”

Spanky laughed out loud. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

Of course, if the rumors he’d overheard about Silva trying to “murder” Laney were true, there was little harmony left to destroy. Officially, a rusted pin broke. With nobody, even Laney, saying otherwise, that’s all there was to it. But tensions were high. So far, everyone was too busy working together to keep the ship afloat for things to get out of hand- except the “joke” on Laney. Spanky was sure that was all it was. Silva played rough and maybe Laney had it coming. He could be a real jerk. It was even kind of funny-since nobody died-and Laney sure wasn’t as puffed up as usual. But once the ship was out of danger, they better find one of two things pretty quick: dames or a fight. If they ever added boredom to their fear and frustration, the “jokes” would stop being funny at all.

The procession wound through the heart of the open-air market that was the city of “Baalkpan.” It was somehow reassuring that the name of the place was derived from the ancient charts the Lemurians considered sacred. If nothing else, it proved that whoever transcribed or inspired the Scrolls didn’t speak Latin as a first language. Matt wasn’t positive; his historical interests were focused elsewhere, but he was pretty sure the place-names in the region had been given or recorded by the Dutch within the last two or three hundred years. That also meant that whatever religious importance the Lemurians placed on the Scrolls was a relatively new addition to their dogma. Not its sole foundation. Other than that fleeting thought, however, at the moment he and his companions were far more interested in their surroundings.

They were again struck by the vivid colors all around. Nothing went unpainted, and the tapestries and awnings were remarkably fine. Printing technology was apparently unknown, because the delicate and elaborate designs decorating virtually everything they saw were woven right into the cloth. Accomplished as they were at weaving, however, the Lemurians wore very little-enough for the sake of modesty, but only just. Kilts were the norm, although some, like Adar-and Keje tonight-might don a cape as well. Other than kilts, clothing seemed to be worn only for occupational protection. Occasionally they saw someone dressed in armor of sorts, but even then it appeared more decorative than practical. Matt knew Keje’s armor was real-even though it was carefully cleaned and polished, it was scarred with many dents and cuts that proved it wasn’t just for show. The people of Baalkpan seemed happy and prosperous, if just a bit garish. But unlike Keje and the crew of Big Sal, they didn’t look like fighters.

What they lacked in martial manner, they made up for with their enthusiastic greeting of Keje’s people and the destroyermen. Matt saw plenty of naked curiosity, but no hostility at all. Little apparent surprise either, and it dawned on him suddenly that of course they’d known Walker was coming. They’d dawdled along with Big Sal for days after being seen, and word could have reached Balikpapan on the slowest fishing boat. There’d also been plenty of time for them to learn what happened with the Grik. Indeed, that seemed to have a lot to do with the enthusiastic greeting. They were “hailing the heroes home from the war.” They saw the battle as a great victory and were rejoicing.

“It’s just amazing!” Sandra shouted in his ear, over the tumult. He nodded. Large feline eyes of all colors gazed intently at them from the crowd. Here and there, Lemurian children scampered on all fours, their tails in the air, dodging between the legs of their elders. Others openly suckled their mothers. Ahead, a smallish brontosaurus was hitched to a cart loaded with something pungent. It balked at a command from its driver, apparently startled by the commotion, and bellowed in protest. The procession paused while the driver regained control of the beast and then continued on.

“Amazing!” shouted Courtney Bradford, suddenly just behind them, oblivious to protocol. “They use dinosaurs like oxen, or mules! I wouldn’t have thought they were intelligent enough to domesticate! The dinosaurs, I mean.”

“You’d be surprised,” Matt replied. “I knew a guy who rode a Longhorn steer around like a horse, and a Longhorn can’t be any smarter than a dinosaur.”

“Indeed?”

They passed fishmongers hawking their wares who stopped to gawk at the procession. Mostly, they sold the familiar “flasher-fish” they’d all seen quite enough of, but Matt was surprised to see other types of fish as well. He’d almost imagined that the flasher-fish, vicious and prolific as they were, must have virtually wiped out every other species in the sea. Now he saw that wasn’t the case, although the other fishes, by their size and formidable appearance, didn’t look any more pleasant to meet. There was a large crustacean resembling a giant armored scorpion with a lobster tail that looked able to propel it forward as well as back. He was intrigued by a small version of the plesiosaur they’d rammed, and a very ordinary-looking shark. He’d thought sharks wouldn’t stand a chance in these far more lethal waters, and he suspected they weren’t the dominant predators he’d always known them to be.

He glanced behind and saw that the procession was growing more boisterous, but it wasn’t as large anymore. Many of Big Sal’s crew had been tempted away by diversions or acquaintances. There was still quite a throng, and city dwellers caroused along with them as they made their way toward a massive edifice, squat in comparison to others but much broader and more imposing. It rested on considerably higher stilts than the buildings nearby, and growing up through the center and out through the top was a truly stupendous tree.

At its base, the procession finally halted and the crowd noises diminished. Keje stepped forward and raised his hands, palms forward. When he spoke, Chack quietly translated as best he could.

“Greetings, Nakja-Mur, High Chief of Baalkpan!” Keje’s voice seemed unnaturally loud now that everyone nearby was silent.“I am Keje-Fris-Ar, High Chief of Salissa Home, come from the Southern Sea with mighty friends, trade, and tales to tell. May we come aboard for counsel?”

There was a moment of silence, then a powerful voice from an unseen source boomed at them from above.

“Come aboard, and welcome, Brother. It is long since Salissa Home visited these waters, and some of your tale has arrived before you. Come, eat and drink and tell me your tale. Bring these mighty friends of yours. I would meet them!”

Adar glanced back at them and suddenly spoke urgently to Keje. Keje looked at them and seemed to hesitate, but then clapped Adar on the back and scampered up the rope ladder that was, apparently, the only way up. Adar looked at them again with what might have been uncertainty, but then followed his leader. Matt motioned for Sandra to make the twenty-foot climb and with a smile she grasped the ropes and started up. Matt would have sworn he hadn’t consciously considered it when he suggested she go first, but he caught himself watching the shapely nurse ascending the ladder above and for a moment he was almost mesmerized. The white stockings didn’t hide her athletic legs, and the way her hips swished from side to side at the bottom of her wasp-thin waist… He shook his head and looked away, vaguely ashamed, and saw all the other men watching as well. He coughed loudly and meaningfully and gestured Chack closer.

“How come these people build everything so high off the ground?”

Chack looked at him blankly, then his eyelids fluttered with amusement and he grinned. “Is, ah, tradition? Yes. Remind us of old ways. Also, keep dry when high water. Bad land lizards not climb good, too.”

Matt grinned back at him. “Makes sense to me!” With that, he made his own way up.

Large as it was, Captain Reddy never imagined that the enormous hall he entered would possibly hold all who came along, but it did-as well as an equal number of locals. The size and shape reminded him of an oversized basketball court, dimly lit by oil lamps that exuded a pleasant, if somewhat fishy smell. Huge beams supported the vaulted ceiling and great gaudy tapestries lined the walls, stirring gently with the soft breeze from banks of open shutters. Dominating the center of the hall, the trunk of the massive Galla tree disappeared into the gloom above. Except for the size of the tree and the height of the ceiling, it looked like the Great Hall on Big Sal. Matt guessed there were close to five hundred occupants, talking animatedly, and for the moment, no one paid them any heed.

Along one wall, a long bar was laid with colorful dishes heaped with food. Every ten feet or so was a cluster of copper pitchers containing a dark amber liquid that smelled like honey and bread. Matt saw others grab pitchers and begin to drink, so he seized one each for himself and Sandra. Bradford took one too, but when the other destroyermen moved in that direction, Lieutenant Garrett scowled and shook his head. Matt peered into his pitcher and sipped experimentally. He looked at Bradford, surprised.

“Tastes… sort of like beer,” he said. “Not bad, either.” Sandra took a tentative sip and Bradford raised his mug. A moment later, he lowered it and smacked his lips.

“Ahhh! Beer! We’ve more in common with these Lemurians than we ever dreamed! I’d think the alcohol content is rather high as well.”

Matt glanced at Garrett and the security detachment and felt a pang of remorse. They looked at him like dogs watching him eat. “Go ahead, men, but just one mug apiece. Mr. Garrett? See to it. All we need now is drunken sailors!” He and Sandra politely moved along the bar with the crowd, sampling small dishes here and there. The spices were different and some were quite brutal. Many of Big Sal’s ’Cats proudly pointed out this or that and made suggestions, but most of the locals just watched, wide-eyed.

“Cap-i-taan Riddy!”

Matt turned toward the somewhat familiar voice and faced Kas-Ra-Ar, Keje’s cousin, and captain of his personal guard.

“Com plees.”

Bradford had obviously been as busy teaching English on Big Sal as Chack had been learning it on Walker.

“By all means,” Matt replied. “Mr. Garrett? Please supervise our protectors. Lieutenant Tucker, Mr. Bradford, would you accompany me?”

They followed Kas through the boisterous throng, threading their way down the far side, away from the buffet. At the other end of the hall, they came to a less-packed space, where Keje and Adar stood near a seated figure dressed in flowing robes of red and gold. The figure was easily the fattest Lemurian they’d seen, but he gave no impression of sedentary weakness. His dark fur was sleek and shiny with just a hint of silver, and he radiated an aura of strength and power despite the massive stomach his hands laid upon. He regarded them with keen, intelligent eyes as they approached and raised his hand palm outward and thundered a greeting in his own tongue.

Matt returned the gesture, and the Lemurian’s eyes flicked to the sword at his side. Keje spoke quickly in Nakja-Mur’s ear. While the Lemurian chief watched them, unblinking, Adar translated to Courtney Bradford.

“Never has he seen someone make the Sign of the Empty Hand when that person’s hand wasn’t empty. I believe he’s referring to your sword, old boy.”

Matt glanced with surprise at the sheathed ceremonial weapon. They’d worn the swords-as before-to seem less exotic. It hadn’t occurred to him that it might cause trouble. Keje would have warned them if they were committing some terrible breach of convention. Wouldn’t he? He thought quickly. “Tell him my hand is empty. Among our people, only the unsheathed weapon is a threat because it shows intent. The sign is given as a token of friendship and reflects more the intent than the actual fact.”

“It is a lie, then?” came the question. Keje seemed uncomfortable and Adar radiated an air of vindication. Matt felt a surge of anger and wondered if they’d been set up. Sandra unobtrusively squeezed his arm.

“Tell him it’s not a lie. We came here as friends, as we came to the aid of Salissa Home. We’d like to be the friends of all the People. Since our intentions are friendly, not making the sign would have been a lie. Among our people, friends may go among one another armed and still remain friends. Is that not the case among his?”

After the translation, Nakja-Mur just stared for a moment, but then slowly, his lips parted into a grin. Matt looked at Keje and saw he was already smiling. “I tell Nakja-Mur you people always armed because you always… warriors. Always. You ship made for fighting only. Not so?”

Finally, they’d come to the point. He’d never lied about it, but he had downplayed it. Now, Matt knew, there was only one possible answer. The truth.

“USS Walker is a ship of war,” he admitted quietly.

“Who you fight?” Adar asked. “Who you fight all the time to need ship only for war?”

Matt realized it was the first time he’d heard the Sky Priest speak English. “We fight the enemies of our people… and the enemies of our friends.”

“You fight Grik?” Adar translated for Nakja-Mur.

“We’ve already fought the Grik.”

“You fight again?”

Matt glanced at Sandra and Bradford. They were both looking at him, realizing that what he said in the next few moments might have grave consequences for them all.

“If the Grik come and you can’t fight them alone, we’ll help. That’s what friends do. But friends don’t ask friends to do all their fighting for them.”

Nakja-Mur spoke to Adar, all the while watching Matt’s face as if curious how to interpret human expressions. Adar repeated his words as carefully as he could. “After battle tale of U-Amaki Ay Salissa”-he paused and looked at Matt-“Keje tell fight. Grik fight bad, but hard. Fight new way, bigger ship. More Grik than see before.” He took a quick gulp from his tankard. “New thing,” he said. “Different thing. Maybe Grik come… bigger, like long ago.”

Matt was concerned about the Grik, of course, but he wasn’t too worried about Walker’s ability to handle several of their ships at once, if need be. They were the “Ancient Enemy,” that much he understood, and he knew the ’Cats held them in almost superstitious dread-with good reason. But he guessed he’d begun to think of them more along the lines of his “Malay pirate” model than as an actual expansionist menace. They’d been “out there” for thousands of years, after all. His assessment was based on his limited conversations, as well as the lack of any evident preparations to meet a serious threat. Especially here. He’d shifted his primary concern to establishing good enough relations with the Lemurians that they would help with fuel and repairs. If a limited alliance, in which Walker chased off a few Grik now and then, was the only way to meet those needs, then he was prepared to agree to one, but he wanted to avoid an “entangling” alliance that left either too dependent on the other.

Now, though, it seemed they were actually afraid the Grik might attack here. That didn’t fit the “pirate” model. He was dismayed how vulnerable the people of Baalkpan were, even compared to their seagoing cousins. They’d always referred to it as an “outpost” or “colony,” and he supposed that description had left him thinking Baalkpan was small and possibly even transient. Certainly easily evacuated. Now, of course, he knew that the land colony of Baalkpan would be about as easy to evacuate as… Surabaya. But even against six Grik ships, Baalkpan had enough people-complacent as they were-to repel an assault with ease. Something had been lost in translation-or had they been “downplaying” too?

Adar continued. “If Grik come bigger, like long ago, there be.. . plenty? Plenty fight for all.” Matt looked at Nakja-Mur and then at Keje who stood by his side, watching him. Then he glanced at Sandra and sighed.

“Tell me more about the Grik.”

The party proceeded around them, loud with happy cries and chittering laughter. A troupe of dancers found enough space near the trunk of the great tree to perform feats of astonishing agility and admirable grace. They were accompanied by haunting but festive music produced by drums and a woodwind/horn that sounded like a muted trumpet. All the while, a space was left surrounding the thronelike chair of Nakja-Mur and his guests while they discussed the peril they faced.

Nakja-Mur touched a chime. At the signal, a truly ancient Lemurian emerged-as if he’d been waiting-from a chamber behind his chief, dressed in the robes and stars of the Sky Priests. Around his neck was a simple brass pendant, tarnished with age but suspended by an ornate chain of gold. He clutched it when he suddenly spoke the same, but more polished, Latin that Adar had first used to communicate with them.

“You understand the Ancient Tongue,” he grated.

“Yes! I mean, uh, that’s true, Your… Eminence.”

The old Lemurian gave a start when Bradford replied, but continued in his raspy voice. “I’m disquieted by that, but it’s clearly true. I would learn how this can be. But that will wait.” He seemed contemplative for a moment, but then visibly gathered himself to speak again.

“I’m Naga, High Sky Priest of Baalkpan. I will tell you of the Grik and of the People. The Scrolls are our ancient history, our guide, our way, our very life, but they are incomplete and there are gaps-great gaps- between their beginning and the now. Hundreds of generations passed between the beginning times and when we learned the Ancient Tongue. The Truth was passed by word of mouth all that time before it was recorded.” He blinked several times in a sequence that Bradford thought signified regret. “Perhaps, much was lost,” he continued, “but the Scrolls clearly tell of a time when all the people lived together in happiness and peace on a land in the west. A land vast and beautiful, safe from the capricious sea. A land lush and green and covered with trees and protected by water. And the Maker of All Things, the Greatest of all the Stars above, filled the waters around the Ancient Home with wicked fishes that kept our people safe from the monsters across the water on the western land.

“And thus it was, for age upon age. The People lived and died, but were prosperous and happy and needed only the trees for their homes.” He shook his head in lament and blinked again, rapidly. “But for some, it wasn’t enough. The fragile perfection of the People’s existence was somehow lacking, it seemed. Some built boats, to range upon the sea and take fishes there. They wandered and explored, and finally it came to be that one of the boats was cast upon the western land of monsters. The Grik,” he added darkly. “The Grik slew them and ate them, but then wondered from where did they come, this new prey?”

Bradford translated as quickly as he could, but began to fall behind. The old priest waited while he caught up, and then continued.

“The Grik built boats for themselves. They copied the very boats delivered unto them. They were poor sailors, and many perished and the flasher-fish and gri-kakka grew fat on their bodies, but there were always more. Finally, they reached the ancient paradise of our People. Only a few came at first, like now.” He stopped and looked at Nakja-Mur. “And they were killed and cast into the sea. The People were not warriors and many died, but they were able, for a time, to slay all that came.” He paused for effect. “But there were always more.”

The party went on, unabated, but a circle of silent listeners had formed around them. The old Sky Priest lifted a copper mug to his shriveled lips and drank.

Bradford turned to Matt. “My God, Captain! Do you know what this means? Madagascar! This ‘ancient paradise’ simply must be Madagascar! These people are quite clearly related to lemurs-as I’ve believed from the start! I admit the relation has become somewhat distant…”

“Distant!” snorted Sandra. “Most lemurs are no bigger than a cat. None I know of are bigger than a chimp!”

“That’s where you’re mistaken, my dear. A species of giant lemur once dwelt on Madagascar, a species almost as large as our friends. I’ve seen their very bones!” His brow furrowed. “But they were not nearly so… humanlike in form. Nevertheless! This gives me almost enough information to advance my theory regarding-” He was unable to finish because the wizened priest spoke once more.

“The war for paradise must have lasted generations. We know not, because the Scrolls do not say. But during that time, the People learned to build great ships-the Homes of the Sea-and so were prepared when the Grik became too many and the People were finally cast out, forced to wander the vast oceans, never to return to our sacred home.” Naga paused to catch his breath and allow Bradford time to translate. While he waited, he looked wistfully at the great tree in the center of the hall. “At first, we wandered blindly. We had not yet learned the Heavens-to follow the paths they laid before us. We knew the Great Star, the Maker of All Things who lights the world and brings brightness to the void of night, and we knew his little brother, who washes the night with a cool, sleepy light, but we did not know that the smaller stars yearned to show us things. Many perished when their Homes were cast on unknown shores, and it’s said the bones of those ancient wrecks bleach there even still. But enough survived to carry on. Lost and scattered by storm and darkness, our people did survive. Over time, they saw the light in the darkness and learned the wisdom of the Heavens. It was then that they knew the stars for what they are-the bright essence of those who have gone before and watch over us from the sky.”

He looked at the humans for a moment and Bradford could have sworn that he blinked in speculation. He continued. “Some settled in the northlands, and others in the south. Some eked out an existence on tiny islands in the middle of the Western Sea, but always, where there was land, eventually there were Grik. The only ones to gain a shadow of freedom from war and fear were those who lived on the sea. Only the sea was safe, for the Grik do not love it and did not know how to build the great floating Homes. With the deep waters between us, where the mountain fish dwell, for a time there was peace and it seemed the Grik had forgotten the prey that escaped them. We found these lands where the Grik did not thrive and those that did were weak and primitive and we made colonies, or land Homes, for the first time in age upon age. A hundred generations passed. More. The people lived well and in peace. Baalkpan and other colonies rose to thrive and prosper and the great Homes of the sea plied the oceans and slew the gri-kakka for his sweet oil and restored contact between the scattered ones so we could become one People again. Different, diverse, and far-flung, but still one People even if languages and beliefs had changed.

“The Grik became no more than a myth, a terrible legend to frighten younglings into doing their chores, but no longer did they haunt our dreams. The terrible enemy that stole our home and nearly destroyed us had become less than a fable. The backward Grik here were hunted and slain, and those on the islands nearby did not know tools and weapons. On a few islands, some live still and no one ever goes there to stay.”

“Bali,” Matt said aloud, and the old priest blinked a curious affirmative.

“Then, like a gift from the Heavens themselves, the first Tail-less Ones came in three ships, suffering from storm and loss. They were tired and weak and poor in food, but friendly and rich in wisdom of the Heavens. We fed them and nursed them and helped them repair their ships and, in return, they taught us that the stars did indeed show the way, but one could see the way only through the Sun, since the Sun alone was the child, and as one with the Maker of All Things. From the Sun we take direction, and with direction, the stars in the Heavens would show us the way from place to place. They told us the names of the stars and the names of places as well, like Baalkpan and Borno and Baali. But the greatest gift they bestowed upon us was the Ancient Tongue by which the Scrolls were drawn and written at long last, and in which we now converse.”

“My God,” whispered Matt. “The stars are ‘ancestor spirits,’ the son of the sun is the sun… Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”

Sandra nodded. “Whoever came before left behind more than they thought.”

“Yeah, I’d hoped the ‘Scrolls’ weren’t so deeply incorporated-”

Naga interrupted. He’d watched their varied reactions, but he didn’t pause for long. “At last there was a way for all the People to understand one another again, and to go from place to place without ever having been there, and in safety!”

“What happened to them? What did they look like?” Bradford asked quietly. His face remained impassive, but when he glanced at Captain Reddy, his eyes were intent.

“As far as what they looked like, all that is recorded is they had no tails, as you do not, which is strange and disturbing enough. The circumstance of their arrival is also somewhat similar…” He hesitated. “As far as where they went, that’s a tragic story in itself, and one that, I fear, has finally returned to task us. A learned one among them, a scholar of great wisdom with the name Salig-Maa-Stir, taught our fathers the Ancient Tongue and drew the lands and waters and placed names upon them. It’s said his leaders did not approve, and when they found out he’d done this thing, they forbade him to teach us their everyday tongue or the magic they guarded. Nevertheless, he loved the People and told us what he could through a tongue ancient even among his kind. Eventually, even this wasn’t allowed, and Salig-Maa-Stir was kept away except to barter for goods. His greatest pupil, however, a female named Siska-Ta, picked up the narrative of the visitors. It was she who told the tale of the leaving of the Tail-less Ones.

“They claimed their home was far to the west, beyond even the Land of the Grik. But in spite of their wisdom, their Scrolls, and their tools, they were lost and alone and all their people were gone. Salig-Maa-Stir claimed that their land had ceased to be. Siska-Ta and our fathers assumed their people were slain by the Grik, and the horrors of old legends resurfaced. But before he was taken away, Salig-Maa-Stir said his people were not conquered, they had simply ceased to be.”

Matt and Sandra looked at one another.

“This was a horror even worse than the Grik, but they never gave explanation. However, it came to pass that one of the ships wanted to go to their home and see what had become of it. Our fathers told them the legends, and warned them of the danger, but they knew. They knew! They’d met the Grik already! This was terrible news for the People, for it confirmed the legends and meant that the Grik truly did exist, as the priests had been saying all along. But what worried them most was that if the Tail-less Ones returned to that evil land, the Grik might learn their ways and soon find us as well! The leaders of the other ships shared this concern, but they had not the will or right to stop the one from trying.

“Finally, it was decided the one would go west, bearing only those who desired to go, with only the most rudimentary weapons and the scantiest of Scrolls. It was hoped that if they were taken, the Grik would learn nothing about where they’d been, where they were going, and most important to the other two ships, where we were and where they would go. On a blustery spring day, the one sailed west-we expect now to its doom-and the other two sailed east, and disappeared into the vast, empty Eastern Sea, beyond the known world. That was almost three hundred seasons ago.”

The old priest took another long swallow from his tankard and smacked his lips over eroded, yellow teeth. It was evidently a story he’d often told and now that it was done, the somber theater of the telling passed and his mood once more reflected that of the party that continued to thrive.

“Did this Siska-Ta ever write any more?” Bradford asked.

“Oh, yes indeed! She became the first true Sky Priest and not only finished the early Scrolls but traveled the world and taught the Scrolls and the Ancient Tongue to all the People. It is from her we know the shape of the world, from this side of the great Western Sea all the way to the Eastern Ocean, where the waters fall away and the world ends. She also compiled histories of the many people she met and went among. She was a Prophet. A great Prophet.”

“Do the Scrolls show where the Ancient Home of your People lies?” Bradford questioned eagerly, certain that he’d solved his riddle.

The old priest closed his eyes in a long, mournful blink. “Alas, they do not. We know it is beyond the Western Sea, where none dare go. The waters are without bottom, as are those of the Eastern Ocean, and great monsters dwell there. And of course, beyond the Western Sea are the Grik.”

“Did the Tail-less Ones leave nothing of themselves at all? Nothing you could point to and say, ‘This was theirs’?” Sandra asked.

“Some ornaments and cloth, some of which still exist,” the priest said dismissively. Then he glanced at Nakja-Mur before speaking again. “Other than that, only this.”

He raised the pendant resting against his chest and held it forth. Matt, Sandra, and Bradford all leaned forward and peered at the tarnished brass disk. It was about the size and shape of a hockey puck, or a can of snuff. Reverently, the priest undid a clasp and raised the lid of the device.

“Is it not wondrous?” he asked.

Before them was a very old pocket compass. A tiny folding sundial lay retracted to one side, and beneath the crystallized, almost opaque glass, a small needle quivered and slowly swung to point dutifully in a northerly direction.

“My God,” murmured Captain Reddy. The compass itself was a fascinating discovery, but what caught his attention, and took Sandra’s breath, was the inscription under the lid.

Jas. S. McClain Sailing Master H. E I.C. SHIP HERMIONE

“My God,” Matt said again.

“What’s it mean? H.E.I.C.?” Sandra asked, almost a whisper.

“It means we were right, my dear,” Courtney Bradford said. “We’re not the first ones here. H.E.I.C. stands for the Honorable East India Company.”

“As in the British East India Company?” she asked, astonished.

“So it would seem,” Matt answered dryly. “I think we know now where the Grik got the design for their ships.”

“You believe the Grik captured the ship that went west?”

“They must have. Indiamen at the time were built like warships, and the Grik ships we fought sure looked like seventeenth- or eighteenth-century warships-or Indiamen, I guess, come to think of it. I mentioned it at the time, and I also mentioned I didn’t think it was a coincidence. Somehow I doubt the crew of that westbound Indiaman survived the technology exchange with the Grik. I wonder what happened to the other two?”

“But if they were British,” interrupted Sandra, “why teach the Lemurians Latin?”

“They’d probably already figured out how messed up everything was, just like we did. According to Naga, they’d already run into the Grik too. They didn’t want anybody knowing too much about them and, ultimately, where they went. But they had to communicate, just like us, and it probably seemed safe to teach the Lemurians a language no one knew. That would still leave them, or anyone else, unable to read their charts or get much information from the crew at large.”

“That makes sense, I suppose,” said Bradford, nodding. He glanced at Keje, who looked a little annoyed they were talking so long among themselves, but the other Lemurians just stared. “Thank God they didn’t take cannon with them,” he said fervently.

“That seems clear,” Matt confirmed, “just like their Scrolls say. No weapons, or at least no extraordinary weapons, are mentioned to have been encountered since. I think it’s safe to assume they must’ve removed the guns from the westbound ship. If they hadn’t, the Grik would be using them and the Lemurians would damn sure know about them. Ask their old priest how long they’ve been fighting the Grik this round, and how long the Grik have been using this type of ship.”

“The Grik have pushed us this time for only the last generation,” Naga answered. “Until then, they were content to remain upon the land to the west. They’d still been mostly creatures of legend. But now they come again. It’s just like the ancient times. The Grik come slowly at first, just a few at a time-but there are always more.”

Keje spoke and Adar translated, since his English still wasn’t up to the task. “During fight you help us, was first time we see such ships. Before, they look same, but… smaller.”

“It seems a stretch that their naval architecture hasn’t changed in three hundred years, except to enlarge an existing design.”

“The Grik are not innovators,” Keje said savagely. “They only take. If they’ve taken nothing better since they learned the three-masted ships, they would see no reason to change. Now they know where we are, though, they will keep coming. We will fight, and we will kill them, but they will keep coming until we are all dead or forced to flee these waters just as we fled our Ancient Home.”

So much for the “Malay pirate” model. They’d need another one. The “slow creep” that Naga described left too much to chance-like “when.” They must get more information about the enemy. A familiar feeling crept into his chest. It was like the days after Pearl Harbor all over again, when he knew they stood almost alone, in the face of… what? Something Big was all they knew, and they didn’t know when or where. They’d been expendable then, an insignificant cog, and he was just following orders. He remembered how helpless and frustrated he felt that their fate was so arbitrarily sealed by unknown policies and strategic plans that seemed to make no sense. Now he was the one who had to make policies that might kill all his men-or save them. The crash transition from the tactical to the strategic left him overwhelmed. Sandra must have seen the inner desperation reflected on his face, because he again felt her reassuring hand on his arm. Finally, he looked at Keje.

“If they come, we’ll help. I said that already. But we can help you now, better, before they come. Baalkpan’s vulnerable, and no one seems ready to fight. If you prepare to fight now, you’ll be better able when the time comes. Believe me”-he forced a half smile-“my people learned the hard way about being unprepared. Maybe this time it’ll be different.”

“I have not seen your amazing ship up close,” said Nakja-Mur, “but Keje and Adar tell me of its wonders. Still, what can one ship do in the face of the Grik multitudes?” The word “multitudes” sounded bad, Matt thought with a sinking feeling.

“Not enough probably, by herself,” he said flatly, “but a lot. The main thing Walker and her crew can do right now is help you prepare. And the first thing we need for that is fuel.”

Walker swung at her anchor as the tide dragged her around until the busy, festive city of Baalkpan was off the port beam. It was totally dark and the lights cast an eerie, almost Oriental glow that reflected off the restless wave tops. Occasionally, sounds from shore reached Alan Letts as he leaned against the rail beside the number three gun. A party of men quietly worked on it, preparing to dismount it if they were allowed, so they could get at the balky traverse gear. Larry Dowden stopped by and spoke to Campeti, who supervised. “… in the morning…” was all Alan heard.

Screeching metal on metal and a string of obscenities came from the torpedo workshop. Letts was surprised to hear a hoarse Japanese shout respond to Sandison’s tirade, followed by a crash of tools on the deck. When there was no further sound or cry of alarm, he chuckled. “That Jap’s either going to make the best torpedoman Bernie has, or get fed to the fish.” It still struck him strange having a Jap help with any sort of weapon, but Jap torpedoes worked just fine. Maybe Shinya knew something about them. He knew about machines; that was why Letts had suggested the appointment in the first place. If he had to work-and everybody did-that was as good a place as any. He stretched. It was nice to be on deck, breathing real air without the sun blasting the skin right off him. He scratched his forearm, rolling a ball of parched skin under his fingernails. I’m starting to get just like the Mice, he thought. I can only come out after dark. God, I wish I was home.

Off to the west, lightning rippled through dark clouds. It’ll probably rain, he thought dejectedly, and then I’ll start to rot. There’d been several days of uninterrupted sunshine-hot, as usual-but it normally rained once or twice a day. He didn’t know which he hated worse, the hot sun that burned his skin or the hot, miserable rain that caused his skin and everything else to rot and mildew. All things considered, he’d really rather be in Idaho.

He lit a cigarette and let it dangle between his lips like he’d seen others do. It was an affectation he imagined they got from movies, but it looked cool, so he did it. Wouldn’t be long before there weren’t any smokes, he reflected. That wouldn’t bother him as much as others. But some of the things they were running low on were important to their very survival, and he didn’t have the slightest idea where to get more. He was the officer in charge of supply, but unless the lemur monkeys, or whatever they were, came through, there was no supply for supplies. He was a whiz at organizing and allocating and sending requisition forms through proper channels. In the past, if the stuff came, it came. But if it didn’t, they always managed to make do or get by because there was always something to make do with. If the snipes needed a new feed-water pump, he would pick one up at the yard in Cavite or from one of the destroyer tenders like Black Hawk. If it was “the only one left” and they were saving it for Peary or Stewart because their supply officers did them a favor, then he could roll up his sleeves and swap and bid with the best. But when it came to getting something that wasn’t there and never had been, and the only choice was to produce it themselves, he didn’t have a clue what to do. He hoped the captain did.

He glanced to his left when someone leaned against the rail a few feet away. It was that nurse, the other one, with the auburn hair, the one that never said much. Karen something. Karen Theimer.

“Hi,” he said. She glanced at him, but then looked back at shore. She put a cigarette to her lips and drew in a lungful.

“What do you think’s going on?” She gestured at the city.

Alan shrugged. “Big Chief Powwow,” he answered with a grin. “How should I know? I’m a meager lieutenant jay gee. Mine’s not to reason why. I hope they come up with some supplies, though. Me being the supply officer, I always like to have supplies to be in charge of and, right now, there ain’t much.” She didn’t grin or laugh, or say anything at all. She just took another puff. Standing so close, with the moon overhead and the flashes of lightning in the western sky, Alan was struck for the first time that she was really kind of cute. Of course, she and Lieutenant Tucker might be the only human females in the world-talk about a supply problem! He guessed it wouldn’t be long before she started to look good if she had a face like a moose.

“I haven’t been much help,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’ve been having… a tough time adjusting to what’s happened. I always led a sheltered life and thought becoming a Navy nurse would be a huge adventure.” She looked at him for the first time, and her lips formed a small, desolate smile. “I guess I was right. I have to try harder, though. Lieutenant Tucker’s right. If any of us are going to survive we’re all going to have to pitch in, and in ways we might not expect. Everything’s changed, and I have to figure out a different way of looking at things. Going across to the Lemurian ship scared me to death.” She shuddered. “I mean, they’re like… aliens from another planet! Like Martians. Add in all the carnage of the aftermath of battle and I guess I didn’t handle it very well. But I did learn that being a Navy nurse doesn’t mean just being a Navy nurse anymore. Do you know what I mean?” She suddenly pulled her hair. “God, why am I even telling you this? You’re just some guy.”

He looked at her and sighed, chagrined. “Yeah. I’m just ‘some guy.’ Maybe that’s been my problem all along. I think I do know what you mean, and I’m ashamed of myself. I’ve been wallowing in my ‘meager supply officer’ status so long it never occurred to me that might mean something different now too. It took me longer than you to figure that out, though. Thanks.”

She smiled at him, and this time he saw her dimples in the light of the city. “My name’s Karen Theimer. What’s yours, Lieutenant?”