“Aye,” said Hans. “I remember when my uncle Bob got in such a state. We thought ‘e was a gonner ’til he woke up in the middle o’ ‘is own wake! Gave us all a start, I tell ya. Then he proceeded ta drink all the likker ever’one brought ta the wake. He said if ya needed the hair o’ the dog ‘at bit ya fir a hangover, then ya needed the whole damn’d hide o’ the dog ‘at kilt ya!”
“Yes,” said Asquith after the laughter died down, “it happens more often than you’d think in your low-tech worlds. We have a report from one area where they dug up coffins to move to a new location. When they reopened these coffins, one out of twenty-five coffins was found to have scratch marks on the inside. They realized that they’d been burying people alive! So that’s why you tie a string on the wrist of the corpse, lead it through the coffin and up through the ground and tie it to a bell. Someone would have to sit out in the graveyard all night (this was the ‘graveyard shift’) to listen for the bell; thus, someone could be either ‘saved by the bell’ or they’re considered a ‘dead ringer.’ ”
All the members of the mess smiled genially as they heard this, but their smiles disappeared when the earthworm continued.
“But the saddest thing about your so-called civilization is this fixation with our long-outdated Earth literature. Especially your infatuation with Jay Tolkien. On Earth we know that he was a kook, a religious fanatic with views and values long since discarded by reasonable people.”
Suddenly the members of the mess were deathly quiet. They all set down their silverware or wine glasses and leaned forward in their chairs, looking intensely at their guest, and cutting glances to Mr. Fielder, waiting for him to say something.
“Sir,” began Fielder. “As the president of our little mess, I must tell you that you have gone astray. I respectfully request that you drop the topic, or we will reach the point where your only options are a duel or an apology.”
“Apology? What have I got to apologize for? If you people can’t handle the truth, that’s your problem. You should be apologizing for your sad civilization.”
Petreckski shook his head and tried to reason with the earthworm. “We are amused by your application of a witty piece of fifteenth-century Earth history to us. The truth is that our culture is based on a society that is several hundred years more advanced, and the field of hygiene and medicine is the one area where we draw selectively from more advanced cultures. You, from your one sad little world can say whatever you want about our kingdom, spanning thousands of worlds. But sir, when you speak of our respect, nay veneration, of J.R.R. Tolkien, it is like insulting our religion. Religion and politics are topics which gentlemen can agree to disagree about, and set aside from polite conversation. In your ignorance you have gone across the line, and a simple apology will be accepted with a willing spirit.”
“Apology? You pathetic bunch of neanderthals! Let me just ask you one thing. So where are the Hobbits? Eh? Where are the damned Hobbits in your little delusion, your cultish fixation! You found an existing situation, overlaid this sad Tolkien template on reality, and convinced yourselves you are living it. Deluding yourselves that it is prophecy, but it’s really a self-fulfilling prophecy!”
“Very good, sir,” said Fielder leaning back in his chair with a pleasant smile. “Then honor presents no option but a duel. As Robert Heinlein put it, ‘An armed society is a polite society.’ We are an armed society, and we are a polite society. You of course have choice of weapons. The mess will choose its champion to respond upon the field of honor.”
“Duel!? Duel?! I have a life expectancy that’s several hundred years long. You think I’m going to risk it in some primitive duel? You can all be damned!”
“Very well,” Fielder replied, pointedly leaving the “sir” out this time, his lazy smile still in place. “Then you are no longer welcome in this mess. You can take your meals with the men, but I give you fair warning: try any of this insulting foolishness with them and they will simply thrash you. Now leave, or I will ask the mess steward to throw you out. You are no longer a gentleman, and it is beneath the members of the mess to lay hands upon you. But we will happily ask the steward to do so.”
Cuthbert Asquith XVI looked up at the two sailors who materialized beside him, grinning eagerly, looking for any excuse to toss the boorish earthworm out on his ear.
“Yes, I’m leaving,” he said, “But I’m going straight to the captain.” He stormed out, just as Lady Elphinstone was coming in from making her rounds in sickbay.
“My,” she said, “he didn’t last long.”
Melville was quietly content with his lot in the world. The promised draft of Sylvan topmen were aboard and they were performing admirably, along with the other new crew members they had picked up on Ambergris. Fang had received top priority for a full-scale refitting in a major dockyard, and she was happy. They’d turned a tidy profit in their trading. And, in spite of his sincere efforts to close with the blockading fleet, the enemy had declined his invitation to come out and play. He’d led the evacuation fleet and chased away the Guldur blockade without scraping the smallest patch of paint, or harming so much as a single hair on a single crewman’s head.
Sun Tzu, around 500 b.c., said that the ultimate trick in warfare was to defeat your enemy without having to fight them. One of the commentaries several hundred years later said, ‘But if you do, who will declare you valorous?’ Well, at this point in his life Melville didn’t feel the need for someone to declare him valorous. He’d done his best to engage the enemy, and he could find satisfaction in the fact that his crew and passengers had come out of danger without harm.
Even his passengers weren’t a significant problem. The Stolsh refugees were painfully appreciative, and only too happy to oblige any request. In fact, the female members were a bit too eager to please, and Melville kept his marine guards busy keeping the crew and the refugees separated. On a long voyage this would have been awkward, but on a short trip such as this it was little more than a pleasant diversion filled with relatively harmless flirtation. A bit of a preview of what awaited the returning heroes when they finally were given shore leave on Osgil.
Another major source of pleasure for Melville, and for the entire ship, was the state of improved relations on the quarterdeck. Fielder had never shown open disrespect to Melville, but the newfound regard he demonstrated toward the captain since the battle of Ambergris, their walking together and their regular consultations hadn’t gone unnoticed. Melville and his first officer also found a mutual delight in trim paintwork, perfectly drawing sails, squared yards, and flemished ropes. After their stay in the Stolsh shipyard, Fang had never in her existence looked better and the two officers took great pride in their beautiful ship. A pride that their crew shared as they sailed trimly in and out and around a vast fleet full of Stolsh and Sylvan admirers.
Of course, there was still one major area in which Fang’s captain and her first officer would probably never see eye-to-eye. Melville’s delight in his ship’s appearance was greatly surpassed by his zeal for taking the whole beautiful, fragile edifice into righteous combat with an evil and less esthetically inclined enemy, who would do far more than just mar her paint given the opportunity. Needless to say, Fielder strongly disapproved of this sentiment, but in the end Melville was the captain.
Yes, Melville had been content with his world. Until this little roly-poly earthworm came into his office and started
“demanding” things.
He weighed his options carefully. One course of action which he considered seriously was to have Ulrich kill the little toad and have his body slipped quietly overboard. As pleasant as that prospect was, his sense of duty and his common sense both argued against it.
“Sir,” he said, with careful, measured tones. “You are a diplomat, and you should understand the need to respect the cultural mores and taboos of those around you. Especially on board a ship, where men are at each other’s throats for months on end, such civilities are particularly important. There are many harsh, draconian things we must do at sea, but across the centuries we’ve found them to be essential to survival. Do you think that you can force them, that you can browbeat them into agreeing with you? Believe me, you cannot. All you can do is to generate greater and greater degrees of animosity every day. Therefore it’s a reasonable and cultured compromise simply to agree to leave disagreeable topics alone.”