Liam watched them march away, slit-eyed with envy. Thirty men, all of them armed, and three horse-drawn carts for the loot.
Eileen came to stand beside him. “And why isn’t my bold bucko going with them?”
He grunted bitterly. “General Desmond says he daren’t risk me getting killed.”
Eileen McGrath pursed her lips. Liam guessed she was perversely pleased with his answer. She said, “But you haven’t told him you’ll be the next Lord of Barley Cross?”
Liam shrugged. “I don’t have to, love. The O’Meara left a will naming me. The general posted it outside the church this morning. As far as he’s concerned, I am the next Master.”
She said quickly, “Where are they off to?”
He slumped against the door jamb. “There are some fine houses outside Oughterard. They are seeking some furniture for the Fist.”
“And who’s going to live there when it’s all dolled up?” He studied the boggy landscape mutinously. “No one—unless you agree to me being the Master.”
Her voice rose. “Liam McGrath–”
He turned his face away. “Forget it, Eileen. If you don’t want it, neither do I!”
Their son had another attack of croup the following day. Liam went down to the doctor for a bottle. He seized the opportunity for a quiet chat.
“How long d’you think the raid will take?”
Denny Mallon corked a small sample of his croup mixture and stuck one of his precious labels on the bottle. He handed it to Liam. “Depends on how fast they are at furniture removing. Remember now, tell your Eileen: a teaspoonful only when the little fellow starts to breathe hard.”
Liam took the bottle. He said, “I’m afraid they are wasting their time. Eileen won’t hear of me being Master.”
Denny Mallon got out his pipe and polished the bowl on his sleeve. “Does she know why the general wants you to?”
Liam shrugged. “If she knows, she doesn’t care. There’s just no way I’ll have seigneurial rights with the future brides of Barley Cross.”
The doctor grinned. “I’m not sure that I’d agree to it either, in her place. D’you think the Fist might tempt her when we’ve got it done up?”
Liam rolled his eyes. “She’ll be tempted, all right. But no way will she put up with me doing what the Master is supposed to do.”
Denny Mallon stared at his pipe. “Maybe she’ll have to be let into the secret. I’ll be wanting a chat with her soon about the baby. I think we have an allergy on our hands. But I need to make a few more tests before I’m sure.”
Liam looked startled. “Can an allergy cause croup?”
The doctor lodged the cold pipe in the corner of his mouth. “Indeed it can, son. But so many other things can too. I’m trying to pin down the hapten or allergen responsible.”
“And if you find out, we could do something about it?”
Denny Mallon nodded. “That’s the general idea, son.”
The raiding party came home the following day. The village turned out en masse to welcome its warriors. General Desmond led the returning column, feet first, on a cart piled high with loot, one leg wrapped in bandages.
Celia Larkin stood beside Denny Mallon. “What’s the old fool done now?”
“Got himself shot in the leg, I should imagine.” The doctor waved a greeting as the cart bearing the general went past. “I hope he doesn’t want the damn thing chopped off.”
“They must have been more lively in Oughterard than he expected.”
“Maybe those old ones with a kick left are not confined to Barley Cross.”
“Don’t be snide, Doctor,” chided the schoolteacher.
It took the rest of the week to clear out, clean up, and refurnish the Fist. The village’s unofficial ruling caucus met over the weekend in a splendidly furbished dining hall. General Larry Desmond, his crutch on the new carpet at his feet, said, “I’ve posted a notice in the village proclaiming young McGrath as Master. Everybody is asking when will he take over. She can’t ignore that.”
Celia Larkin perched primly on a bright, brocaded tuffet.
“That’s your trouble, Larry. You never married. You don’t understand how a woman feels about a husband’s fidelity.”
“She can’t put young McGrath’s fidelity before the future of Barley Cross!”
Kevin Murphy ran a palm caressingly over the pile on the arm of the settee. “I have known animals to refuse to breed.”
The general’s eyebrows went up. “Are you telling me we’ve wasted our time? And me with half a dozen slugs in me leg!”
Denny Mallon waved his pipe. “You’ve done your part well enough, Larry. I think it’s now time for diplomacy. Let me have a chat with Eileen McGrath. Maybe I can talk her around to our way of thinking.”
The same day, Eileen McGrath got a note from the doctor, asking her to bring the child in for an inoculation. The doctor also made other preparations.
The next day, as she and Liam took Tommy down to the village, Eileen said, “I hope you are not expecting to go all the way out to Killoo farm to visit your parents as well? It’s bad enough having to bring the boy out to the doctor.”
Liam said, “We can go straight back home if you want. I was hoping we might leave Tommy with your ma while we take a squint at the Fist. I hear they’ve done marvels with it.”
She lifted a corner of the shawl covering her son’s face. The infant snored peacefully. She said, “I’d like to see it. My ma thinks I ought to let you accept the Master’s job so we can move up there. She says they’ve made it into a real palace.”
He said, “Let’s do that, then. We can call at the doctor’s afterward.”
Brigit O’Connor got to her feet as they entered her living room. She curtsied to Liam. “Come in, me lord. I’ll take the little fellow.”
Eileen stared, dumbfounded. “Ma—you bowed to Liam!”
Her mother puffed out a pouter-pigeon bosom. “And isn’t he our new lord? I always bowed to the O’Meara.”
“But–” Eileen stared from her husband to her mother. “I haven’t agreed!”
Her mother laughed shortly. “My girl, ’tisn’t you who appoints our lord and master. We have the O’Meara’s word as to who’s to follow him.”
Tom O’Connor entered from the kitchen, a saw in his hands. He halted, removed his cap, and said, “Good day to ye, sir. Hullo, Eileen, me lady.”
His daughter was wide-eyed. “But, Da—!”
Her father said hurriedly, “I’ll fill the kettle for a brew.” He vanished back into the kitchen.
Eileen stamped her foot. “I don’t want to be the First Lady of Barley Cross!”
Her mother shrugged. “You’ll be the only person in the village who feels that way.”
Later they walked up to the Fist. Villagers stepped out of their path. Men doffed caps or saluted. Women bowed or curtsied. Eileen grew redder and redder. She murmured, “I can’t stand much more of this.”
Liam gripped her hand. “It isn’t far now.”
Just past the O’Meara’s old water tank, now blooming with bindweed and woodbine, a voice called, “ ’Tenshun!”
A small Fist guard stiffened.
Sergeant Andy McGrath bellowed, “Present arms!”
Rifles came smartly to the fore. Liam’s stepfather came to the salute.
Liam, embarrassed, muttered, “Thank you, Sergeant.” All those other salutes and curtsies might have been part of an elaborate leg-pull, but no one made Andy McGrath act the fool. Especially while on duty.
General Desmond, limping with his crutch, met them at the entrance of the drive. He sketched a left-handed salute for Liam and addressed Eileen. “Excuse me not bowing, me lady. I’m still in a bit of a state. May I conduct you around your new home?”
“But it’s not–” Eileen began. “I haven’t…”She let the words trail off. General Desmond was limping ahead of them, running on about the recent raid and how a spry Oughterarder had got him in a shotgun’s sights before he could
take cover.
They passed through the newly oiled and polished doorway into the great hall. Candles flickered in a shimmering chandelier overhead. Glass gleamed from a glistening oak sideboard. Underfoot the carpet was softer than a field of spring grass.
Michael, the O’Meara’s man, appeared. He still wore his grubby flyaway collar and stained green waistcoat, but his hands were spotless. He said, “Can I get you some refreshment, sir? Madame?”
Eileen eyed him, wordless. “Some tea?” Liam suggested. A good stiff jolt from the poteen bottle would have been more to his taste, but Eileen held firm views on alcohol.
“Very good, me lord.” Michael turned on his heel.
“Perhaps we could take it in the library?” suggested the general. “This way, me lady.”
He opened a door on the left. Liam saw a room lined with more books than he had ever imagined. Denny Mallon got hurriedly to his feet. “Good day, me lord, me lady.” He pulled out chairs for them.
“I’ll leave ye a moment,” said the general, “while I make sure Michael knows where to bring the tay.”
They sat down with the doctor. He placed both hands on the baize-covered table. “Well, sir, madame—how d’you like your new home?”
“But, Doctor Denny!” Eileen’s face was scarlet. “I haven’t agreed to move up here. We only came for a look.”
“But sure, it’s all been done specially for you and our new Master.” Denny Mallon’s voice was gentle, persuasive. “And doesn’t the whole village want you living up here? It hasn’t been the same without a Lord of Barley Cross domiciled at the Fist. So the sooner you move in, the happier we’ll all be.”
Eileen’s expression grew stubborn. “If we move in, you mustn’t expect Liam to exercise his droits or whatever when that O’Malley girl gets married next week.”
“But, my lady—he may be expected to do just that.”
“Expected or no, I’m not having adultery in my house.”
Denny Mallon seemed to shrivel even smaller. Perhaps he saw a carefully constructed edifice crumbling despite his bravest efforts. “My lady, could you tolerate it elsewhere? Out of sight?”
Eileen McGrath’s mouth set firm. “Indeed I could not, Doctor. And you’ve no cause to be tempting me so. What’s important about these rights of the Master? They’re just a tradition we could very well do without.”
“But we really can’t, my dear.” Doctor Denny Mallon was suddenly down on his knees before Eileen McGrath. “I beg of you, my lady. Let your husband inherit his title and duties. For without him, we are doomed. While the O’Meara lived, we could hope. But now he is gone, we have only Liam.”
Eileen McGrath whimpered. The sight of Doctor Denny Mallon, a pillar of the community, on his knees before her, pleading, seemed to unnerve her. She grasped his hands and tugged. “Doctor Denny, stop! You mustn’t kneel to me. It isn’t dignified. Please get up!”
Denny Mallon resisted, head bowed. “My lady Eileen, if I get up without securing your consent to our wishes, all the work of the last twenty-odd years will have been wasted. Will it help persuade you if I get the general, the vet and the schoolmistress to kneel here beside me?”
Eileen McGrath’s voice broke in a sob. “Doctor Denny, please get up. It is not fit that you should act like this. The O’Meara wasn’t worth it. Everyone knows he was an old lecher with an appetite for virgins.”
“Eileen!” Liam was shouting. “You are talking about your real father!”
She paused. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes suddenly frightened.
Liam lowered his voice. “Listen to Doctor Denny, love. He’s trying to tell you something dreadfully important. Patrick O’Meara was Master here only because he could father children. No one else in Barley Cross—or the whole world so far as we know—was able to do that. And now the doctor thinks I’ve inherited the man’s fertility. So General Desmond has asked me to take over as Master.”
Eileen’s eyes grew big. “You mean the O’Meara did it out of duty?”
“My lady,” Denny Mallon interrupted urgently, “let me tell you about two villages. One is a backward place dominated by a medieval-type tyrant and his clique of sycophants. This tyrant’s father debauched every bride in the village on her wedding night on the pretext of exercising his droit du seigneur. And the tryant himself hopes to pursue the same lustful course despite the protests of good folk like yourself.
“The other village is the only place I know of where babies are suckled, infants play in the street, and children go to school as they used to do the world over. Moreover, it’s a place where married couples can hope to have a child of their own to love and cherish. In fact, it’s a village with a future to look forward to.
“Both these communities exist because of a fortuitous arrangement of one man’s genes and the determination of people to practice self-deception on a heroic scale—because they are aspects of the same place. And it depends on your prejudices which village you choose to inhabit. Because, my dear, you can live in either, depending on what you believe. I, silly old fool that I am, just happen to believe we live in the one with a future.”
“Doctor Denny!” Eileen tugged at his wrists, her lips trembling. “Please get up, and say no more. Liam will do it, and I’ll try to see things your way.”
One hand on the table, Denny Mallon rose awkwardly to his feet. There was no triumph in his face. His eyes were solemn. He said, “Thank you, Eileen McGrath, for finding the courage to make the right decision.”
She was dabbing at her eyes. “Hadn’t we better be getting down to your house to see about inoculating our Tommy?”
A ghost of a smile flickered at the corners of the doctor’s mouth. “Sure that won’t be necessary now, my lady. I’ve ascertained that the little fellow’s croup is an allergic reaction to fossil pollen grains blowing off the peat stacks near your cottage. I was going to suggest you move away from there to give him a chance. But now it won’t be necessary. Up here at the Fist, far from those stacks, he should be all right.”
Eileen McGrath smiled, her eyes inscrutable. “What a wise suggestion, Doctor. It will certainly do for a reason to explain why I changed my mind, if anyone should ask.”
Denny Mallon nodded wisely. “It might at that, my lady.”
Liam McGrath, Lord of Barley Cross, attended his first meeting with the caucus the following Saturday morning. Neat in his best clothes, he entered the dining hall through his private door.
General Desmond and the vet, Kevin Murphy, sat at each end of the plush new settee, a bottle of poteen and the general’s crutch on the floor between them. Celia Larkin, the schoolmistress, perched on a dainty tuffet, sipping tea in silence. An armchair that matched the settee for luxury almost swallowed the shriveled form of Doctor Denny Mallon. And on the other side of the fireplace, an old sagging armchair, arms and back shiny with use, stood empty.
General Desmond cocked a casual thumb in the empty chair’s direction. “That used to be the O’Meara’s seat. We’ve kept it specially for you, son, so you’ll know your place. Now, about the O’Malley girl’s wedding. We’ve decided you’d better get down there early and show ’em your face…”
Liam slipped obediently into the Master’s seat. He nodded, listening carefully to his instructions from the real Masters of Barley Cross. He knew his place.
Editor's Introduction to:
COMMENT AND DISCUSSION ON “ELEVATION OF THE U.S. FLEET” BY CAPTAIN RICHARD B. LANING, USN (Ret.)
by Kenneth Roy
In August, 1982 Proceedings of the U.S. Naval Institute Captain Richard Laning, USN (Ret) proposed Very Large High Flying aircraft; flying carriers, to be exact. When Kenneth Roy, an Oak Ridge, Tenn. engineer, read that issue of the Proceedings he recalled an article he had seen in the May, 1978 issue of Galaxy science fiction: my column “A Step Farther Out,” which that month was about aircraft powered by laser energy from geostationary satellites
The result was this Comment, which proved a bit too far out for
the Proceedings.
COMMENT AND DISCUSSION ON “ELEVATION OF THE U.S. FLEET” BY CAPTAIN RICHARD B. LANING, USN (Ret.)
by Kenneth Roy
Captain Laning talks about elevating the aircraft carriers of the U.S. fleet to forty thousand feet and flying them at speeds of six hundred knots. It is truly a radical idea and one that holds both great promise and vast quantities of technical, tactical and strategic problems. Any profession that involves the lives of men had better be cautious when considering new and different ideas, for the larger the innovation, the greater the potential debacle.
But to fail to innovate, to cling to the old and familiar in the face of the new and better, is to invite certain disaster. Each military generation faithfully prepares to refight the last war, to a greater or lesser extent. Before World War II, France studied The World War and built accordingly; Germany tried something different…
Very Large High Flying (VLHF) aircraft are not new to aviation thinking, but none have been built. Such an aircraft would look a lot like a flying football field, only larger. It would be a flying wing with jets mounted in or near the trailing edge. Flying at six hundred knots, it could reach anywhere in the world within twenty-four hours. It would probably fly high enough to make use of the jet streams. It would be very fuel-efficient once it reached cruising altitude. With large fuel tanks, it could probably stay aloft for two, maybe three days. Thus we have two major problems with Captain Laning’s idea: first, a fleet of such aircraft would use vast amounts of kerosene (otherwise known as jet fuel) and, second, it would not be able to stay on station for any length of time. Such a fleet would have to be very careful about having its line of retreat cut.
But all is not gloom; a paper entitled “Laser Aircraft Propulsion” presented by Kenneth Sun and Dr. Abraham Hertzberg at the Third NASA Conference on Radiation Energy Conversion puts forth a total solution to both problems. The Sun/Hertzberg paper describes plans for a modified Boeing aircraft with a laser-powered turbofan jet engine mounted on the back of the aircraft. This aircraft would take off and land under normal kerosene power but would then switch over to the modified turbofan jet once it reached cruising altitude. The modified turbofan engine has a heat exchanger in the middle, where the combustion chamber normally is located. The heat exchanger is connected to a laser target located on top of the aircraft. There is no reason that this aircraft, or a VLHF aircraft, couldn’t fly for months using only laser light.
There Will Be War Volume IV Page 15
