To Archer’s right, and considerably lower even though she sat on a thick book, was Broadax. The last of their commissioned officers, she was a splash of bright marine scarlet that balanced out Elphinstone’s yellow amidst the sea of navy blue. For once Broadax left behind the obligatory helmet and omnipresent cigar. Her monkey seemed slightly bewildered as it peered out from amidst the stiff locks that splayed out in disarray from her scalp. Across from her was Hans and his monkey, both with discreet chaws of tobacco in their cheeks. Although he had the least seniority among the warrant officers, his position as sailing master gave him traditional precedence among them.
Broadax and Hans were both uncomfortable at the beginning of their first formal dinner as commissioned officers. They were more accustomed to quaffing their drinks, which they firmly held to be a lot like drinking, except that you were allowed to spill more. But, like Archer and Crater, they too quickly adjusted and, much to their surprise, were able to enjoy themselves.
To Broadax’s right was Petreckski in a clean brown robe, then the gunner, followed by the carpenter. The two rangers in soft, beaded buckskins completed the party. These were all old hands at such dinners and they kept the conversation, the alcohol, and the food flowing freely.
Each of them had a servant standing behind them. The table was set with a gleaming sea of Guldur silver service that they’d found on board, all polished to a brilliant luster by Melville’s steward, McAndrews, who now stood contentedly behind his captain. The service was only silver plate, of very little real value, but it added significantly to the pleasure of the evening.
It was a large party for so small a cabin, but with the table set athwartships and the two 12-pounders trundled into the captain’s office and sleeping cabin, it could be done. To Melville’s left were the windows looking out on the vast blue expanse of Flatland with the shimmering galaxies hanging above. On the other three sides were white, Moss-coated bulkheads. Immediately behind Melville the bulkhead was adorned with a star-shaped array of quite utilitarian pistols and swords. At the opposite end was a bookshelf. To his right was the doorway, flanked by a coat rack and a chart locker.
The meal was that odd mixture so common in military life. Elegance mixed with mundane necessity. In this case it was Vodi’s gourmet thrice cooked javelina brains, “or-a-reasonable-facsimile-thereof,” combined with ancient ship’s provisions. The whole affair was enlivened by Vodi’s amiable commentary as she brought each dish to table.
“Now, gentlefolk,” she said as she brought the soup in, for once without her chaw of tobacco, “I’m not all that much of a reader, but I do read everything I can about food and cooking. Captain Aubrey’s biographer once referred to a similar meal. ‘This liquid is technically known as soup,’ as he put it. May I ladle you out one full medical dose? ‘It is pleasant enough to see the remnants of peas so aged and worn that even the weevils scorned them and died at their side, so that now we have both predator and prey to nourish us.’ ” This was especially humorous since it was a fairly accurate description of the daily fare provided for them by the ship’s cook. However, in this case the weevils did appear to have been assiduously separated out and replaced with a most pleasant mélange of spices. “What is pleasanter still, is to see the infamous brew spooned from this gleaming great silver tureen, the gift of the previous residents of our humble abode. We are informed that ‘however poor you are—and nobody could be much poorer in reality than sailors in a ship without any stores—what crusts you may scrape together eat with more relish in handsome silver.’ ” And indeed it was true.
“Next, gentlefolk, we have a truly villainous piece of mystery meat, that has traveled the galaxy in its time, growing steadily more horny and wooden as the years went by. But we shall eat it without concern, for we have all grown and thrived on worse.”
Finally came the piéce de résistance, accompanied by Vodi’s own family history. “An ancient family recipe tells us the background of this dish. Family tradition has it that one of my ancestors actually included this in a book called The Contented Poacher’s Epicurean Odyssey. Great-great, many-times-great-gramma Vodi, maysherestinpeace, tells the true tale about the hunting of one particular wild pig. A very large and dangerous creature indeed, nicknamed ‘Major’ who was in the habit of ordering people the hell out of his domain. Apparently, the sacred honor of the Great Apes was in eternal jeopardy if they could be bested by a pig. One fine hot and misty morning five guys and seven dogs set out to bring Major down. But there’s many a slip twixt dress and drawers, as Gramma used to say. Some time after the fight started in earnest, the survivors straggled out to tell their story. One man lost his leg, another his life!” Here you could see her mouth twitch as she yearned for a chaw of tobacco to spit for emphasis at this point.
“They had shot him once for each of the dogs he gutted and flung into the bushes and once again for the fella whose leg he ripped to the bone. The guy with the ripped leg and the three other survivors waited in the trees until Major bled to death on the ground. The moral of the story seems to be something along the lines of ‘I am not now, nor was I ever that hungry, and if chicken’s for dinner I’ll take chicken and be glad of it!’ Me, I’m glad to have so many excellent javelina brains provided at someone else’s expense.”
At the end of an excellent meal combined with quality commentary and conversation, the cloth was drawn and the wine bottle made its rounds, along with a plate of ship’s biscuits. Melville automatically tapped the biscuit on the table causing a few weevils to race out and hide, peering out from under his plate. For centuries sailors have stoically put up with creatures in their biscuits, and the Ships of Flatland were no different.
Usually the weevils elicited no comment, they were just a part of shipboard life. But in this case Melville brought it to the attention of his purser and surgeon, both of whom were fairly new to navy life. “Doctor, Brother Theo,” he began, catching their attention, “have either of you ever been instructed in the naval protocol for the selection of weevils?”
Both of his guests looked somewhat confused, and the other sailors sat back with anticipation and pleased smiles on their faces. “No, Captain,” said the monk. “There are so many nautical concepts and rules that I have yet to learn, and I fear that this one hasn’t been brought to my attention. Doctor, do you know of which our good Captain speaks?”
“Nay, sir,” replied Elphinstone with an enchanting smile. “Pray, tell us.”
“Well,” said Melville, “of these two here, trying to hide under my plate, which would you be inclined to choose?”
“I would guess the larger,” replied Brother Theo, “or perhaps the faster, or perhaps the only good one is a dead one?”
“All excellent guesses, but the truth is my friends, that in the navy you must always select the lesser of two weevils.”
The guests laughed appreciatively, but the sailors laughed with even more delight. It was an old, old joke, come alive and afresh each time it was inflicted on the uninitiated, establishing the kind of heritage and tradition that they deeply valued.
Eventually their talk turned to one of the oldest of all subjects in the navy: the mystery and wonder of Flatland. Several discussions were flowing freely back and forth when a conversation between Petreckski and Valandil caught the attention of the group. Petreckski was speaking of the nature of the Keel. “A mechanism that provides entry into two-space, with a side effect of heat, that would almost be what you expect.”
“Yes, and what of the gravity?” asked the Sylvan ranger as he leaned back in his chair.
“That probably comes from Flatland, representing the gravitational pull of the galaxy. Which is also what you might expect. All of this is acceptable to the rational mind. But a life-form that just happens to provide light and air? Light and air tailored precisely to our needs? It defies imagination, sir. It is just too much. So bizarre that we had to ‘invent,’ or anthropomorphize some godlike creature to create it. They say that Lady Elbereth gave it to us as a ‘gift,’ just as the ignorant Greek peasants could only understand the sun as a chariot in the sky brought to us every day by a god. No, the Elbereth Moss is too much to ask a reasonable person to accept.”