He spread his wet clothes on the warm, tiled floor, hastily patted them smooth, drew up the chair and fell to. “As you say, Skipper,” he muttered, “we never had it so good.”
There was a foam mattress on the floor of another bay of the same room; Don did not need to look to see that it was Greenie general issue (officers). There was no bedframe and no blankets, but neither was necessary. Knowing that he would not be disturbed nor expected to put in an appearance until it suited him, he spread himself out on it after dinner. He was very tired, he now realized, and he certainly had much to think about.
The reappearance of Sir Isaac caused buried memories to lift their heads, fresh and demanding. He thought again of his school, wondered where his roommate was. Had he joined up on the other side? He hoped not… yet knew in his heart that Jack had. You did what you had to do, judging it from where you were. Jack wasn’t his enemy, couldn’t be. Good old Jack! He hoped strongly that the wild chances of war would never bring them face to face.
He wondered if Lazy still remembered him.
He saw again Old Charlie’s face, suddenly blasted out of human shape… and again his heart raged with the thought. Well, he had paid back for Old Charlie, with interest. He grieved again for Isobel.
Finally he wondered about the orders, all the way from HQ, that had sent him to Sir Isaac. Was there actually a military job here? Or had Sir Isaac simply found out where he was and sent for him? The last seemed more likely; HQ would regard a request from a prince of the Egg as a military “must”, dragons being as important as they were to operations.
He scratched the scar on his left arm and fell asleep.
Breakfast was as satisfactory as supper. This time there was no mystery about its appearance; it was wheeled in by a young dragon—Don knew that she was young as her rear pair of eyestalks were still buds; she could not have been more than a Venus century old. Don whistled his thanks; she answered politely and left.
Don wondered if Sir Isaac employed human servants; the cooking puzzled him, dragons simply do not cook. They prefer their fodder fresh, with a little of the bottom mud still clinging to it, for flavor. He could imagine a dragon boiling an egg the proper length of time, the time having been stated, but his imagination boggled at anything more complicated. Human cookery is an esoteric and strictly racial art.
His puzzlement did not keep him from enjoying breakfast.
After breakfast, his self-confidence shored up by clean and reasonably neat clothes, he braced himself for the ordeal of meeting Sir Isaac’s numerous family. Used as he was to acting as a “true speech” interpreter, the prospect of so much ceremoniousness in which he himself would be expected to play a central and imaginative part made him nervous. He hoped that he would be able to carry it off in a fashion that would reflect honor on his parents and not embarrass his sponsor.
He had shaved sketchily, having no mirror, and was ready to make his sortie, when he heard his name called. It surprised him, as he knew that he should not have been disturbed—being a guest freshly arrived—even if he chose to stay in his chambers for a week, or a month—or forever.
Sir Isaac lumbered in. “My dear boy, will you forgive an old man in a hurry for treating you with the informality ordinarily used only with one’s own children?”
“Why, certainly, Sir Isaac.” Don was still puzzled. If Sir Isaac were a dragon in a hurry, he was the first one in history.
“If you are refreshed, then please come with me.” Don did so, reflecting that they must have had him under observation; Sir Isaac’s entrance was too timely. The old dragon led him out of his chambers, down a passage, and into a room which might have been considered cozy by dragon standards; it was less than a hundred feet across.