"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 thorough-bred—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 dee-stroy 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."
Destroyermen its-1 Page 27
