But national pride influenced him. The kilt, in a variety of tartans, is worn throughout the Empire on all occasions, by both men and women, with uniform and with civilian clothing. Longish, heavy kilts are for winter, short, lightweight kilts are for summer. Traditionally nothing is worn under these garments—all well and good when they're long and heavy but liable to offend the prudish when they're short and light.
Not that the Werrississians were prudish. It was just that, as far as they were concerned, there were things that are done and things that just definitely aren't done. They were prepared to tolerate outworlders and their odd ways but they didn't have to like them when such odd ways were offensive. I was grateful to Maggie for her good advice. Here was (comparatively) little, lightly armed Seeker whose people were happily conforming, and there was the huge William Wallace whose men strode arrogantly along the avenues of the city flaunting their bare knees—and more on a breezy day. They realised that the natives liked us while thinking that they were something that the cat had dragged in in an off moment. They resented this. They openly jeered at our women in their long gowns, carrying their parasols, calling them Madam Butterfly. I heard that they were referring to me as Lieutenant Pinkerton . . .
* * *
"Who were they, when they were up and dressed? " asked Kitty.
"Two characters in an opera who were dressed more or less as we were dressed," said Grimes. "Very unsuitably—as far as Pinkerton was concerned—for the climate."
* * *
But, as I said, Sir Hamish had done some research before his landing on Werrississa. I learned later that he had earned quite a reputation as a gourmet. He had even been known to sneer at the Waverley national dish, the haggis. He had, as I had done, insisted that all his people familiarise themselves with local dishes and eating implements. They even carried their own working tools with them, tucked into their sporrans, when they went ashore. It was reported to me by some of my officers, who had dined in the same restaurants, that the William Wallace personnel were quite skilful with these, even with the skirroo, the implement used when eating leeleeoosa. Yet it wasn't enough. They might eat like civilised people but they dressed like barbarians. We both ate and dressed properly.
And yet we were all members of the same race, whereas the Werrississians, for all their similarities, weren't. There had to be some fraternisation between the two crews. I invited Sir Hamish to take lunch with me aboard Seeker—and, unlike some people whom I will not name, he thoroughly enjoyed his sushi. He told me that he was planning a dinner aboard William Wallace for local dignitaries and would be pleased if I would attend together with three of my senior officers. I was happy to accept the invitation. Then—we'd had quite a few drinks and were getting quite matey—I asked him if he'd be serving haggis, piped in the traditional way. He wasn't offended. He laughed and said, "Not likely, Grimes. I ken well that you people are putting on a big act o' being civilised while we're just hairy-kneed barbarians. But I'll demonstrate that, when it comes to civilised living, we're as good as anybody. It'll be a Werrississian menu, prepared by my chefs . . ."
"Dress?" I asked.
"Formal, o' course. Ye'll be wearin' your dinner uniforms. We'll be wearin' ours. An' we'll be cooler than you'll be—from the waist down, anyhow. My private dining room will have to conform to local ideas of comfort, temperaturewise . . ."
I was rather sorry then that I couldn't back out, but it was too late. Later, when I passed the word around, nobody was keen to accompany me. At last Maggie said that she'd come to hold my hand. The other two victims were MacMorris, my chief engineer, and Marlene Deveson, one of the scientists. A geologist, as a matter of fact. Not that it matters.
Then the Big Day came round. Or the Big Night. We met in the air-conditioned comfort of my day cabin for a drink before walking the short distance to Sir Hamish's ship. We were all tarted up in our best mess dress, tropical. It would still be too hot for comfort with the white bum-freezer over the starched white shirt, the long, black trousers. The two ladies were slightly better off, with high-collared, epauletted, long-sleeved shirts only on top of their ankle-length black skirts. At least they were not required to wear jackets. Maggie looked good, as she always did, no matter what she was or wasn't wearing. Marlene looked a mess. She was a short girl, fat rather than plump. Her round face was already sweaty. Her hair, greasily black, was a tangle. Two of her shirt buttons had come undone.
We allowed ourselves one small whisky each. Sir Hamish would be serving Scotch and it wouldn't do to mix drinks. Then Maggie made a check of Marlene's appearance, frowned, took her into my bathroom to make repairs and adjustments. When they came out shirt buttons had been done up and hair combed and brushed into a semblance of order.
We took the elevator down to the airlock, walked slowly down the ramp. William Wallace was a great, dark, turreted tower in ominous silhouette against the city lights. (Sir Hamish did not believe on wasting money on floodlighting, even when he was showing the Thistle Flag.) It was a hot night. I'd started perspiring already. I had little doubt that the others were doing likewise. We made our way slowly across the apron. The heat of the day was beating up from the concrete.
We climbed the ramp to William Wallace's after airlock. The Imperial Marine on duty—white, sleeveless shirt over a kilt with black and red tartan, sturdy legs in calf-length boots—saluted smartly. I replied. Inside the chamber we were received by a junior officer, clad as was the Marine but with black and gold tartan and gold-braided shoulder boards on his shirt. More saluting. We were ushered into the elevator, carried swiftly up to Sir Hamish's suite.
He received us personally. He looked very distinguished. From the waist up he was dressed as I was—although he had more gold braid on his epaulettes than I did, more brightly ribboned miniature medals on the left breast of his mess jacket. And he was wearing a kilt, of course, summer weight and length, in the Imperial Navy's black and gold tartan. His long socks were black, with gold at the turnover. There were gold buckles on his highly polished black shoes.
And he, I was pleased to see, was feeling the heat too. His craggy face under the closely cropped white hair was flushed and shining with perspiration. But he was jovial enough.
He exclaimed, "Come in, come in! This is Liberty Hall. Ye can spit on the mat an' call the haggis a bastard!"
"Are ye givin' us haggis, then, sir?" asked MacMorris eagerly.
"No. 'twas just an expression of your captain's that I modified to suit my ship. We don't carry tabbies in the Waverley Navy."
Both Maggie and Marlene gave him dirty looks.
* * *
"Tabbies?" asked Kitty Kelly.
"In the old days of passenger carrying surface ships on Earth they used to call stewardesses that. Today all female spacegoing personnel, regardless of rank or department, are called tabbies. But not to their faces."
"I should hope not."
* * *
We were the first guests to arrive. We were taken into Sir Hamish's sitting room—he had quarters that would have made a Survey Service admiral green with envy—introduced to his senior officers, plied with excellent Scotch. Then the young officer who had received us on board ushered in the native guests. There were six of them, three male and three female. They looked pale wraiths. They accepted drinks from the mini-kilted mess steward although they regarded his hairy knees with distaste. Rather pointedly they made polite conversation only with those of us from Seeker, we were properly dressed even though our hosts were not. Their command of standard English was quite good.
A skirling of bagpipes came over the intercom. I assumed that it was the mess call. I was right. Sir Hamish led the way into his dining room. The long table, with its surface of gleaming tiles, each with a different tartan design, was already set. Sir Hamish's artificers had done him proud, were doing us all proud. At each place were the native eating utensils in polished bronze—slup, splik and skirroo. There were the bronze wine flasks, the cups made from the same alloy. There w
ere place cards, with names both in English and the flowing Werrississian script.
Sir Hamish took the head of the table, of course, with a local lady on his right and her "social function husband" on his left. (The Werrississians have a multiplicity of wives and husbands—mates for all occasions.) I sat below the native woman and Maggie below the man. Then another native couple, then Marlene and MacMorris, then the last Werrississian pair. Below them was the covey of Imperial Navy commanders—(E), (N), (C), (S) and (G)—all looking rather peeved at having to sit below the salt.
Sir Hamish's mess waiters were well trained, efficient. They were drilled in local customs. First they poured each of us a goblet of the sweet, sticky wine—it was, as it should have been, at room temperature but I'd have preferred it chilled—and there was a round of toasts. We toasted the Emperor James XIV of Waverley, whose gold-framed, purple-draped portrait was on the bulkhead behind Sir Hamish's chair. The gentlemen toasted the ladies. The ladies toasted the gentlemen. We all toasted our host. By this time it was necessary to bring in a fresh supply of the bronze flasks. Unluckily it was still the same sickly but potent tipple. I looked rather anxiously at MacMorris. He didn't have a very good head for drinks and was liable after only one too many to insist on dancing a Highland fling. But I needn't have worried about him. He was a Scot more than he was a Terran and it was obvious that he, aboard a warship owned by the only essentially Scottish spacefaring power, was determined to be on his very best behaviour. It was an effort but he was capable of making it. The toasting over, he was taking merely token sips from his cup.
I looked at Marlene. I knew little about her drinking capacity and behaviour. What I saw worried me. She was downing goblet after goblet of the wine as fast as the steward could refill them. Her hair was becoming unfixed. The black, floppy bow at the neck of her shirt was now lopsided. One button on the front of the garment was undone.
The first course came in.
I've forgotten its native name but it was, essentially, bite-sized cubes of meat, fish, vegetables and other things coated in a savoury batter and deep fried. For these we used the spliks, the long, sharp skewers. The Werrississian guests made complimentary noises and, as was their custom, ate rapidly, their implements clicking on the china plates with their thistle pattern. Sir Hamish and his officers ate almost as fast and so did we Seeker people—with the exception of Marlene. It seemed to me that about half of her meal was going on to the table and the other half on to her lap, and from there to the deck. I was very sorry that Maggie wasn't sitting beside me instead of opposite. Had I been next to her I could have whispered to her, begged her to do something, anything, about her fellow scientific officer before she disgraced us.
The table was cleared but the spliks were left for use on the next course. This consisted of cubes of a melon-like fruit rolled in a sort of aromatic sugar. To my great relief Marlene seemed to have regained control of herself and succeeded in putting at least seventy five percent of the sweet morsels into her broad mouth, although by this time her lipstick was smeared badly.
Plates and spliks were removed by the attentive stewards. Goblets—where necessary—were refilled. I looked imploringly at Sir Hamish; surely he must realise that Marlene had had enough to drink, more than enough. He looked at me. There was a sardonic expression on his craggy face that I didn't like at all. I looked at Maggie. She knew what was passing through my mind. I could read her expression. It said, What can I do about it?
Plashish was next—a sort of clear soup, with shreds of something like cheese floating in it, served in shallow bowls. We all plied our slups, the long-handled spoons, holding them as we had been taught, by the very end of the shaft. All? No, there was one exception. Marlene, of course. She did try, I admit, but gave it up as a bad job. Then she lifted the bowl to her mouth, with two hands, and lapped from it . . .
The William Wallace people were trying to look even more shocked than their native guests but I knew that the bastards were glorying in the discomfiture of the Sassenachs. Us. And Sir Hamish—may the Odd Gods of the Galaxy rot his cotton socks!—was looking insufferably smug. He had shown the Werrississians that even though the representatives of Waverley insisted on wearing their own native dress they could comport themselves at table far more decently than the minions of Terra. And the Werrississians? They were gravely embarrassed. Their complexions had faded from the usual pale cream to an ashy grey. They were obviously avoiding looking at Marlene.
The plashish course was over. The leeleeoosa was (were?) brought in—the deep bowls of lukewarm water in which the meaty worms were swimming, the smaller bowls of sauce. I daren't look at Marlene to see how she was managing. I was having my own troubles, anyhow. So was Maggie. So was MacMorris. We'd practised enough with skirmos—both aboard Seeker and in restaurants ashore—but somehow our acquired skill seemed to have deserted us. We'd stab, and make contact with our prey, and twist—yet every time our intended victims would wriggle free. But Sir Hamish and his people were eating as expertly as the Werrississian guests . . .
It was Maggie first who twigged what was wrong. She stared at me across the table. She raised her left hand with forefinger extended, made a circular motion. I finally realised what she was driving at. The skirroos at our places, those long, bronze augers, had right-handed threads. I impaled one of the tasty worms without trouble then, dipped it in the sauce, brought it up to my mouth, chewed. I felt that I'd earned it. MacMorris, as befitting an engineer, had made the discovery himself. He was eating fast and happily.
I looked down and across the table at Marlene. She was having her troubles. I tried to catch her attention but she was concentrating too hard on her bowl of leeleeoosa. She had her skirroo in both hands. She brought it down like a harpoon. She must have driven the point through the tough, rubbery skin of a worm by sheer force. She lifted it out of the bowl. She didn't bother to dip it in the sauce but brought the wriggling thing straight up to her open mouth. If it had made the distance it wouldn't have mattered, but . . . It slipped off the end of the skirroo. It fell on to Marlene's ample bosom. It found the gap in her shirt front where the gilt button had come undone. It squirmed into the opening.
Marlene screamed. She jumped to her feet, oversetting her leeleeoosa bowl. There were worms everywhere. Maggie guessed her intentions but did not reach her in time to stop her from ripping off her shirt. She was wearing nothing under it. Her breasts were her best feature, but they were big. It seemed as though somebody had launched a couple of Shaara blimps into Sir Hamish's dining room.
The Waverley officers stared appreciatively. The Werrississians, male and female, covered their eyes with both hands. Sir Hamish got to his feet, glared at me—but I knew that this was a histrionic display put on for the benefit of his native guests.
"Commander Grimes," he said, "you and your officers have abused my hospitality and gravely embarrassed my other guests. You will please leave my ship. I shall be vastly obliged if you never set foot aboard her again."
"Sir Hamish," I said to him, "none of this would have happened if our places had been set with the correctly left-hand-threaded skirroos."
He said, "I thought that I was doing you a favour. All my people have found it far easier to use right-handed skirroos of our own manufacture."
And so we slunk off William Wallace in disgrace, what little dignity remaining to us dissipated by the tussle that we had with Marlene to stop her from stripping completely; she was convinced that one of the spilled worms had wriggled from the floor up her leg.
Back aboard Seeker we almost literally threw the fat, drunken girl into her cabin. MacMorris—whose mind was reeling under the shock of having been thrown off a Scottish ship—went to his quarters to sulk and to console himself with whisky.
Maggie came up to my flat to console me. We held a post mortem on the disastrous evening. We'd thought that we, playing along with the local prudery regarding dress while the Waverley crew flaunted their short kilts, had made ourselves the most favoure
d aliens. But Sir Hamish had turned the tables on us. Of course, Marlene's strip act had been an unexpected bonus to him.
So that was that. I had to carry the can back, of course—after all, I was the captain. My popularity rating with the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty sank to what I thought must be an all time low.
* * *
"If you had the sense to stick to civilised food," said Kitty Kelly, "that sort of thing would never happen . . . But I don't know much about the Galaxy outside the Shakespearian Sector. This Werri-whatever-it-is . . . I suppose that it's now well and truly inside the Waverley sphere of influence."
Grimes laughed. "As a matter of fact it isn't. I heard that after we'd left Sir Hamish and his senior officers were invited to a very genteel garden party thrown by no less a dignitary than the Grand Coordinator. It was a windy day. They should have had sense enough to wear their winter weight kilts . . .
"It was the Shaara, of all people, who got a foothold (talonhold?) on Werrississa. After all, you don't expect a really alien alien to have the same nudity taboos, the same table manners, as you do. We humans are so like the Werrississians that every difference was exaggerated."
The Rim Gods Page 23
