“Detweiller, take her to a grailstone near the temple. We’ll dock there and do some repairing.”
“How come, Tham?”
“How come? So John’s spies will see us there. Then, if he’s going to attack, he’ll know he won’t be ambushed. In fact, he might think the rockets from the cliff did us so much damage we’re badly hurt. And he’ll know he can get through the strait before we could even get near him. Then it’ll be the last deal, with us holding a royal flush. I hope.”
“But, Tham,” Joe said, “vhat if Petrothki did blow up the control room? And Bad Chohn vath killed? Maybe they ain’t in no pothithyon to fight.”
“I don’t see anybody under a white flag and offering to surrender. We’ll just retreat and hope that John will come out to do battle. In the meantime, we’ll do a little scouting of our own. Byron, send the Gascon out. Tell Plunkett to go through the strait at top speed, take a quick look, and get to hell back here.”
“May I offer a suggestion?” Byron said. “The Gascon has torpedos.”
“No, by thunder! I’m not going to sacrifice any more good men on suicide missions! It’s dangerous enough as it is, as the old bachelor said to the spinster who proposed marriage. They could be attacked by the chopper, though I think it’s more than an even match for the Gascon there. In fact, if the chopper should chase the launch out, de Marbot should then fire on it. We’ll have our information, and John will wonder what in hell happened to his chopper. He won’t be able to resist sending a launch out to scout. We’ll let the launch get back.
“In any event, John isn’t going to come through until nightfall. I think.”
Byron transmitted the messages. Presently, the whitely shining Gascon swung away from the bank and headed toward the strait. Its commander was the younger son of an Irish baron and had been a naval aide-de-camp to King George V and then an admiral. He was a veteran of the battles of Heligoland, Dogger Bank, and Jutland, and a recipient of the Grand Cross, the Order of Orange-Nassau of Holland, and the Russian Order of St. Stanislas, Second Class, with swords. He was also a distant relative of the great fantasy writer, Lord Dunsany, and, through Dunsany, of the famous English explorer, Richard Francis Burton.
“Sir,” John Byron said, “I think we’ve overlooked something. The marines are still a long way from having their rockets set up. If the enemy helicopter or launch should pursue the Gascon, they won’t be in any danger from de Marbot’s fire. And they might well see his men on the mountain path. Then they would know we’re setting up an ambush.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Sam said reluctantly. “Okay. Tell His Lordship to come back until de Marbot is situated. No use his wasting power circling around.”
“Yes, sir,” Byron said. He spoke on the radio to Plunkett, then turned swiftly on Sam. “Only… the admiral is not properly referred to as His Lordship. He is the younger son of a peer, which legally makes him a commoner. And since his father was a baron, the lowest in the rank of peers, he does not even have an honorary title.”
“I was being facetious,” Sam Said. “Lord preserve me from British sticklers!”
The little Englishman looked as if he thought facetiousness had no place in the control room. He was probably right, Sam thought. But he had to kid around a little. It was the only way he could let off pressure. If he didn’t, he’d blow his mental boiler sky-high. See the pretty pieces flying through the air. Those are Sam Clemens.
Byron was tough, unperturbed in any situation, as calm as a man who’s sold his stock just before the market crashed.
The boat was still far out in the lake, though cutting at an angle toward the bank. Big black clouds were visible to the north. Smoke from the fires started by the fallen airplanes. There would be even more fires tomorrow—unless the rain quenched them. The locals certainly would have no love for either King John or himself. It was a good thing they were pacifists. Otherwise, they might be objecting violently when one of their grailstones was borrowed this evening by those whom they could only regard as killers and arsonists. The giant batacitor of the Not For Hire had to be recharged, even though it was far from empty, and the crew had to refill their grails. He did not think that the Rex would show during this time. It had the same needs.
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