Lenoria was now falling behind them and it was explanation time. And the explanation was interestingly devious. Roxy had been greatly distressed at being pulled off the Fang and assigned to shore duty. So she called in a lifetime of favors and connections in order to pull a trade with the cook of the mail packet Ship scheduled for Lenoria. And the wiley old cook was quite happy to jump Ship as soon as the Fang hit port. The biggest problem had been figuring out how to get aboard at the last minute so she couldn't be taken off again. Roxy and Lt. Broadax had worked up a scam so that their beloved cook could get aboard as a porter.
"See Cap'n," Broadax crowed proudly as she stood upon the upper quarterdeck with Melville and Fielder, watching Lenoria's Pier sink into the east, "it's actually pretty easy oncet I set my mind to it. I figgered if'n that pansy Ell Tee an' 'is guards wus a watchin' me, they wouldn't notice nobuddy wit' me. An' jist ta make sure, I got meself all dolled up right purty so's he couldn't mistake me."
She grinned up at him and concluded, "So since she follered me home, can I keep 'er?"
Roxy's chest went up and down accompanied by a slight wheezing, which was as close as she ever came to laughing.
Melville smiled from ear to ear and the rest of the quarterdeck crew cheered themselves hoarse. "Well," he replied, "since you put it that way, I guess so." He frowned then and added, "You realize we probably need to change the mess around, don't you. Roxy is senior cook..."
"Amen," muttered Fielder. "Now we can dump Jones on a particularly pestilent, flea-bitten world I know of that's on our route. I have a long-standing grudge against the place."
Broadax ignored Fielder and said, "I bin thinkin' on 'at, Cap'n. I know ye humans is all sorter weak in da jaws an' don't appreciate the finer cookin' 'at Jones put out fer us. But ye know though, the Guldur likes Jones' cookin' too. Mebbe we can work out a deal where's we gots two chow lines. 'Specially as a sort of a favor since I broughts Roxy back ta us, ye know?"
Melville smiled in relief. "Best idea I've heard for a while, Lieutenant. I'll do it on one condition."
"Whuts 'at?" Broadax replied suspiciously.
"Have Jones set up downwind!" Melville replied.
That night, as the Fang and her crew sailed happily off into the endless twilight horizon of two-space, a happy wardroom invited their captain to eat with them. Everyone dined with gusto and great satisfaction as Roxy served up heaping platters of her best chow, while Broadax devoured a reeking plate of mysterious gristle that had been prepared by Kaleb Jones.
Dinner was followed by Mrs. Vodi's famous "Death-by-Chocolate" cake. Upon finishing his dessert old Hans leaned back contentedly and—with a none-too-subtle leer and a wink at Broadax—said, "Ahhh. I kin only think o' one better way to die!" A sentiment to which all and sundry were willing to drink heartily.
After dessert the loyal toast was called for by the junior officer present. "Gentlefolk, the Queen!" squeaked tiny Midshipman Aquinar.
"The Queen!" chorused the response.
"Gentlefolk, fill your glasses for another toast," cried Lt. Fielder. "Here's to Roxy!" he said, after all the glasses were full, holding his own glass high. "The best damned cook in two-space! She is now officially AWOL and on the lam from the Navy, but she will never leave our hearts and we'll protect her to our deaths!"
This brought a chorus of agreement and everyone drank deeply from their glasses.
Then Broadax added, "An' 'ere's ta Kaleb Jones, who cooks a damned good meal fer those wat can handle it, an' who made ya appreciate yer Roxy!"
That brought an even louder cheer of agreement as they all emptied their glasses.
"You know," said Melville with a grin, "it was a close call as to whether Jones would have met a violent end. It's happened before, as in the tragic case of Boomer Johnson, about whom an ode was written long, long ago."
This brought smiles all around. "Can ya give us the poem, Cap'n?" asked old Hans.
"Aye, if you'd like," he replied.
The mess roared their approval, and Melville began:
"Now Mr. Boomer Johnson
was a gettin' old in spots,
And you don't expect a bad man
to go wrastlin' pans and pots;
But he'd done his share of killin'
and his draw was gettin' slow,
So he quits a-punchin' cattle
and he takes to punchin' dough.
"Our foreman up and hires him,
figurin' age had rode him tame,
But a snake don't get no sweeter
just by changin' of its name.
Well, Old Boomer knowed his business—
he could cook to make you smile,
But say, he wrangled fodder
in a most peculiar style."
"Hey, I don't think this poem is gonna work, Cap'n," interjected Hans in the pause between stanzas. "This feller's cookin' was good!"
Melville just smiled and continued:
"He never used no matches—
left em layin' on the shelf,
Just some kerosene and cussin'
and the kindlin' lit itself.
And, pardner, I'm allowin'
it would give a man a jolt
To see him stir frijoles
with the barrel of his Colt."
"Ha!" laughed Broadax, "tha's my boy allright!"
"Now killin' folks and cookin'
ain't so awful far apart,
That musta been why Boomer
kept a-practicin' his art;
With the front sight of his pistol
he would cut a pie-lid slick,
And he'd crimp her with the muzzle
for to make the edges stick."
"Yeah, killing and cooking definitely aren't too far apart!" interjected Westminster. "Jones pert near did both at once!"
"He built his doughnuts solid,
and it sure would curl your hair
To see him plug a doughnut
as he tossed it in the air.
He bored the holes plum center
every time his pistol spoke,
Till the can was full of doughnuts
and the shack was full of smoke.
"We-all was gettin' jumpy,
but he couldn't understand
Why his shootin' made us nervous
when his cookin' was so grand.
He kept right on performin',
and it weren't no big surprise
When he took to markin' tombstones
on the covers of his pies."
"Amen!" said Brother Theo, who had lost a fair amount of weight over the past few weeks. "Jones' pies almost were my tombstone!"
"They didn't taste no better
and they didn't taste no worse,
But a-settin' at the table
was like ridin' in a hearse;
You didn't do no talkin'
and you took just what you got,
So we et till we was foundered
just to keep from gettin' shot.
"When at breakfast one bright mornin',
I was feelin' kind of low,
Old Boomer passed the doughnuts
and I up and tells him 'No,
All I takes this trip is coffee,
for my stomach is a wreck.'
I could see the itch for killin'
swell the wattle on his neck."
"At least he was an honest man who did his killing with a gun!" laughed Fielder.
"Scorn his grub? He strings some doughnuts
on the muzzle of his gun,
And he shoves her in my gizzard
and he says, 'You're takin' one!'
He was set to start a graveyard,
but for once he was mistook;
Me not wantin' any doughnuts,
I just up and salts the cook."
"Ha! Tha's the spirit!" cried Hans. "Death to the cook, sez I!"
"Did they fire him? Listen, pardner,
there was nothin' left to fire,
Just a row of smilin
' faces
and another cook to hire.
If he joined some other outfit
and is cookin', what I mean,
It's where they ain't no matches
and they don't need kerosene!"
The mess exploded in applause and Melville bowed and said, "So you see, gentlemen, Kaleb Jones could have met a worse fate, and as captain of this good Ship, I'm just glad we avoided bloodshed! But now we can say that we've come through Guldur attacks and attacks of Dwarrowdelf chow. And as for me, I think I'd rather face the Guldur any day!"
This brought a roar of agreement as Melville concluded, "We have proven that the Fang and her crew can take anything the galaxy has to throw at us! So, gentlefolk, I give you one last toast: God bless the good Ship Fang and all those who fare upon her! Long may she sail the seas of two-space!"
The wardroom's roar of agreement shook the walls. "To Fang!" they chorused.
Fang went forth from the Pier at Lenoria, but she left behind a piece of herself, and a piece of Biter and Gnasher... and a little bit of Kestrel. And their tale spread to every Ship that came to Lenoria, and every Ship carried it forth.
<
And across every Pier and every Ship, and within the souls of every living creature that stepped upon their planks, at a conscious and unconscious level, they knew and remembered...
CHAPTER THE 10TH
Across the Spiral Arm:
"The Trail That is Always New"
It's "Gang-plank up and in," dear lass,
It's "Hawsers warp her through!"
And it's "All clear aft" on the old trail,
our own trail, the out trail,
We're backing down the Long Trail—
the trail that is always new.
The Lord knows what we will find, dear lass,
And the deuce knows what we may do—
But we're back once more on the old trail,
our own trail, the out trail,
We're down, hull down, on the Long Trail—
the trail that is always new.
"The Long Trail"
Rudyard Kipling
After dinner in the wardroom that first night, as usual, the doings of their shore leave was a key topic of discussion.
"Did you get anything while you were ashore?" Mrs. Vodi asked Lt. Broadax.
"Aye. Ol' Hans said 'e wus worried about my mood
swings," replied Broadax, "so 'e bought me this mood ring ta help him keep track o' how I'm feeling. See?" she said, holding it out as Mrs. Vodi and her monkey gazed admiringly at the ring. "When I'm in a good mood this stone turns green. An' when I'm in a bad mood it leaves a big freakin' red mark on 'is forehead! By the Lady, mebee next time 'e'll buy me a damned diamond!"
"Well," said Fielder, with a sympathetic nod toward Hans, "as that ancient haiku master, the Venerable Professor Satori wrote:
"Why buy a diamond?
With the pressure she exerts,
All you need is coal."
* * *
After feeling the warmth (or rather the lack thereof!) of the Admiralty's welcome on Lenoria, the Fangs were more than happy to leave as quickly as possible and defrost their tail ends. With Roxy the cook having managed to return to the Ship through various low and sneaky methods, Melville had a start on improving the crew's culinary conditions.
This was advanced significantly when Lady Elphinstone and Lt. Broadax prevailed upon Captain Melville to assign Kaleb Jones to the marine contingent as their nominal cook—which gave Lt. Broadax control and approval of Jones' menus. Luckily for the marines' sensitive digestive tracts, (sensitive in comparison to the Dwarrowdelf and the Guldur anyway) this agreement also made sure the marines got to eat with the sailors.
Almost everyone was happy with this arrangement. The sole exception being Kaleb Jones himself, who was somewhat unhappy about being assigned to the marines. While he didn't mind cooking for them, his attitude was more along the lines of: "No way in hell I'm gonna belong t' th' damned marines!"
This unsatisfactory attitude was corrected quite handily by the senior marine aboard, Lt. Broadax herself. While the counseling session was conducted privately in the wardroom, the betting was heavily in favor of broken bones and contusions on Jones, rather than permanent lasting damage. All and sundry were firmly convinced that Broadax valued him as a cook, and equally convinced that his big mouth and her explosive temper would make for an entertaining session, even secondhand.
Alas for all those betting, the session was apparently conducted peacefully and quietly with the two of them departing in apparent amity and friendliness. An appearance that was only mildly marred by one of the wardroom's chairs having been broken into hand-length kindling pieces (with the only tool marks being impressions of Broadax's fingers in the hard oak), and stacked neatly in front of Jones' chair.
"The map of our Star Kingdom of Westerness," said Brother Theo, "can be perceived as being much like the United States in her early years. This analogy is quite fragile and purely contrived, and can be dangerous if taken too far. Never forget that this model is based on an artificiality, a generally agreed upon convention to call this the 'upper' side and to view everything from this perspective. But by doing so we come up with a map of the galaxy which has us in the west like Westerness or the Shire, and Osgil and the Guldur to the east, just like the Tolkien mythos."
Brother Theo's students, complete with the usual batch of idlers, were listening intently as the monk explained. This was more than the usual academics. This was no less than an outline of their kingdom's current reality, and their Ship's destiny and plans within that reality.
"Or you can use another paradigm and think of the planet Earth as New York, the Grey Rift as the Atlantic Ocean, and Westerness as Washington, DC, or thereabouts. Lenoria might be thought of as Pittsburgh in the early frontier days. If we use this model, then we will be sailing completely across the continent, or across the galactic arm, to the rim world of Show Low, which is similar to San Francisco in its old, Barbary Coast days. The Far Rift is comparable to the Pacific Ocean, and our final objective will be a star cluster called the Hero Cluster, which is analogous to a group of islands in the middle of the ocean."
This generated a buzz of excitement from his listeners. They had heard that they were headed to the Rim, and from there across the Far Rift and out into the vastness of two-space, but this was the first time they had received so much detail.
"Again," concluded the monk, "these models must be used with extreme caution. We are not America, nor are we Tolkien's Westerness or the Shire. We are us. No more and no less. But whoever we are, we are off on an adventure, my friends."
Thus the Fang started on the next round of her appointed port calls. Normally, Ships of the Westerness Navy were assigned a route that allowed for a reasonable amount of trading, with periodic ports capable of handling the liberty needs of a group of sailors and marines far from home wanting to bleed off stress in the time-honored fashion of indulging in too much alcohol, loose women, and open spaces under wide blue (or green, yellow, indigo, and varied other color schemes) skies.
Unfortunately, the tin gods of the Admiralty hadn't finished with them yet.
The Fang found herself out amidst the dark, rolling, forgotten planets of the kingdom, on a tour of the smallest and newest one-Pier worlds that the Admiralty could put together on reasonably short notice. To keep civilization alive on these worlds, Ships had to visit, dropping off interstellar mail as well as magazines such as Home and Gardens, Vogue, Saturday Evening Post, and Home on the Range Monthly, delivering one copy for each planet, which was then reproduced and distributed. Since there was normally no chance of turning a profit on these runs, the Admiralty had to literally pay fo
r the privilege of sending them out to the back end of the galaxy by remitting a portion of their required payments for each planet visited.
"So far you've only observed major ports," Brother Theo told Asquith as they stood at the stern rail a few days after leaving Lenoria. "You've seen Earth, Lenoria, Ambergris, and Osgil, some of which have a hundred or more pilings, or Keels, or Piers making up their port. But there is a limited supply of Keels. Truly, they are the most valuable commodity in our civilization. They can be utilized for Piers, or for Ships, but not both.
"Thus, you have seen the great ports, and now you are about to see the norm. On most of our worlds there is only one piling coming up to form the Pier. These are the choke points in our kingdom. Indeed, the paucity of Piers and Ships are the limiting factor in our galactic civilization."
"What is stopping us from making more?" asked Asquith.
"You can ask our new carpenter and resident Celebri Guild member, Mr. DeWalt, but he won't tell you," replied Theo. "All the Guild will say is that they are doing the best job they can, manufacturing Keels as fast as humanly possible. And I have no cause to doubt them. Over the years many individuals of great political power have come from the Celebri, and if it were within their power to produce more, I have no doubt that they would do so."
"Okay, I'll forgo the dubious pleasure of asking DeWalt, who gives even longer answers than you do. And I understand that now we're going to see the rural, pastoral aspect of Westerness."
"Nooo," said the monk, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "There is a beautiful, rural, pastoral side to Westerness. But this isn't it. What we are about to see are the kind of nowhere worlds that exist only to avoid the embarrassment of having a big open patch on the map. Verily, I tell you. Somewhere there's a potbellied bureaucrat who looks at the map of our galactic arm and says, 'Hey, that's too big an open patch. We need a stopover there.' So the explorers make an extra effort until they find some marginal world that will support life, and poof, there you have it, a blank spot on the map neatly filled in. The little clerk in Westerness is happy, and a bunch of wretched folks must live on this hell hole. And we have to visit them."
The Guns of Two-Space Page 30
