Glory Road by Robert A. Heinlein

I muttered. I had been thinking the same thing. But I didn’t want to discuss it with Star.

She said, “Pardonne-moi, mon cher? Tu as dit?”

“I said I had given up sex crimes for Lent!”

She looked puzzled. “But Lent is over, even on Earth. And it is not, here, at all.”

“Sorry.”

“Still I’m pleased that you didn’t pick Muri over Letva; Muri would have been unbearably stuck-up with her mother after such a thing. But I do understand that you will repair this, if I can straighten it out?” She added, “It makes great difference in how I handle the diplomacies.”

(Star, Star–you are the one I want to bed!) “This is what you wish . . . my darling?”

“Oh, how much it would help!”

“Okay. You’re the doctor. One . . . three . . . thirty–I’ll die trying. But no little kids!” “No problem. Let me think. If the Doral lets me get in just five words–” She fell silent. Her hand was pleasantly warm.

I did some thinking, too. These strange customs had ramifications, some of which I had still shied away from. How was it, if Letva had immediately told her husband what a slob I was–

“Star? Where did you sleep last night?”

She looked around sharply. “Milord . . . is it permitted to ask you, please, to mind your own business?”

“I suppose so. But everybody seems to be minding mine.”

“I am sorry. But I am very much worried and my heaviest worries you do not know as yet. It was a fair question and deserves a fair answer. Hospitality balances, always, and honors flow both ways. I slept in the Doral’s bed. However, if it matters–and it may to you; I still do not understand Americans–I was wounded yesterday, it still bothered me. Jock is a sweet and gentle soul. We slept. Just slept.”

I tried to make it nonchalant. “Sorry about the wound. Does it hurt now?”

“Not at all. The dressing will fall off by tomorrow. However–Last night was not the first time I enjoyed table and roof and bed at house Doral. Jock and I are old friends, beloved friends–which is why I think I can risk that he may grant me a few seconds before killing me.”

“Well, I had figured out most of that.”

“Oscar, by your standards–the way you have been raised–I am a bitch.”

“Oh, never! A princess.”

“A bitch. But I am not of your country and I was reared by another code. By my standards, and they seem good to me, I am a moral woman. Now . . . am I still your darling’?”

“My darling!”

“My darling Hero. My champion. Lean close and kiss me. If we die, I would my mouth be warm with your lips. The entrance is just around this bend.”

“I know.”

A few moments later we rode, swords sheathed and bows unstrung, proudly into the target area.

Chapter 10

Three days later we rode out again.

This time breakfast was sumptuous. This time musicians lined our exit. This time the Doral rode with us.

This time Rufo reeled to his mount, each arm around a wench, a bottle in each hand, then, after busses from a dozen more, was lifted into his seat and belted in the reclining position. He fell asleep, snoring before we set out.

I was kissed good-bye more times than I could count and by some who had no reason to do it so thoroughly–for I was only an apprentice hero, still learning the trade.

It’s not a bad trade, despite long hours, occupational hazards, and utter lack of security; it has fringe benefits, with many openings and rapid advancement for a man with push and willingness to learn. The Doral seemed well pleased with me.

At breakfast he had sung my prowess up to date in a thousand intricate lines. But I was sober and did not let his praises impress me with my own greatness; I knew better. Obviously a little bird had reported to him regularly–but that bird was a liar. John Henry the Steel-Drivin’ Man couldn’t have done what Jocko’s ode said I did.