Don thought it over. “Cripes, Skipper, I was looking forward to tonight’s scramble. I’ll go tomorrow—those people don’t care about time; they’re patient.”
“That’ll do, soldier. I’m putting you on leave status; according to the despatch from HQ, you may be gone quite a while.”
Don looked up sharply. “If I’m ordered to go, it’s not leave; it’s detached duty.”
“You’re a mess hall lawyer at heart, Harvey.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Turn in your weapons and take off your insignia; you’ll make the first leg of the trip as a jolly farmer boy. Pick up some props from stores. Larsen will boat you. That’s all.”
“Yes sir.” Don turned to go, adding, “Good hunting tonight, Skipper.”
Marsten smiled for the first time. “Thanks, Don.”
The first part of the trip was made through channels so narrow and devious that electronic seeing devices could reach no further than could the bare eye. Don slept through most of it, his head pillowed on a sack of sour-corn seed.
He did not worry about the job ahead—no doubt the officer he was to interpret for, whoever he was, would rendezvous and let him know what he was to do.
Early in the next afternoon they reached the brink of the Great South Sea and Don was transferred to a crazy wagon, a designation which applied to both boat and crew—a flat, jet-propelled saucer fifteen feet across manned by two young extroverts who feared neither man nor mud. The upper works of the boat were covered by a low, polished cone of sheet metal intended to reflect horizontal radar waves upward, or vice versa. It could not protect against that locus in the sky, cone-shaped like the reflector itself, where reflections would bounce straight back to originating stations—but the main dependence was on speed in any case.
Don lay flat on the bottom of the boat, clinging to hand holds and reflecting on the superior advantages of rocket flight, while the crazy wagon skipped and slid over the surface of the sea. He tried not to think about what would happen if the speeding boat struck a floating log or one of the larger denizens of the water. They covered nearly three hundred kilometers in somewhat less than two hours, then the boat skidded and slewed to a stop. “End of the line”, called out the downy-cheeked skipper. “Have your baggage checks ready. Women and children use the center escalator.” The anti-radar lid lifted.
Don stood up on wobbly legs. “Where are we?”
“Dragonville-by-the-Mud. There’s your welcoming committee. Mind your step.”
Don peered through the mist. There seemed to be several dragons on the shore. He stepped over the side, went into mud to his boot tops, scrambled up to firmer soil. Behind him, the crazy wagon lowered its cover and gunned away at once, going out of sight while still gathering speed. “They might at least have waved,” Don muttered and turned back to the dragons. He was feeling considerably perplexed; there seemed to be no men around and he had been given no instructions. He wondered if the officer he had expected to find—surely by this time!—had failed to run the gauntlet safely.
There were seven of the dragons, now moving toward him. He looked them over and whistled a polite greeting, while thinking how much one dragon looks like another. Then the center one of the seven spoke to him in an accent richly reminiscent of fish-and-chips. “Donald, my dear boy! How very happy I am to see you! Shucks!”
XIV – “Let’s Have It, Then.”
DON gulped and stared and almost lost track of his manners. “Sir Isaac! Sir Isaac!” He stumbled toward him.
It is not practical to shake hands with a dragon, kiss it, nor hug it. Don contented himself with beating Sir Isaac’s armored sides with his fists while trying to regain control of himself. Long-suppressed emotions shook him, spoiling voice and vision. Sir Isaac waited patiently, then said, “Now, Donald, if I may present my family.
Don pulled himself together, cleared his throat, and wet his whistle. None of the others had a voder; it was possible that they did not even understand Basic.
“May they all die beautifully!”