“Because, you see gentlemen, we are not ‘Hokas,’ we are the Kingdom of Westerness. Our culture and our values now rule one of the greatest empires in the galaxy, while their values and their decaying culture sit festering and rotting on one lonely, sick old world.
“But, do you see? It is the nature and demands of two-space, which most citizens will never see, that makes our culture the way it is. And keeps it there across the centuries. Most citizens will never see two-space, but you, you gentlemen, will travel in that mystical realm.
“And the most amazing thing of all about that realm is what we found when we finally got there.” Here the old sea captain’s voice grew low. He leaned forward and rested his hands on the front desk. His eyes, his voice, his whole body communicated wonder and reverence. “Others had already been there. Somewhere in the primordial past some ancient, Ur-civilization appears to have seeded much of the galaxy with genetically similar stock. Other races were there before us for centuries, even millennia. Sailing the seas of Flatland, moving from world to world in wooden Ships, we found the fair elves who live high up in the vast trees of low gravity worlds, and the doughty, stouthearted dwarfs who mine deep into high gravity worlds.
“There are even orcs and ogres! And wolves, complete with goblin riders. All can be found out in the vast galaxy. There are even legends of a silicon-based troll-like life-form! And so gentlemen, today you begin your rendezvous with destiny, in a universe filled with exotic creatures, wooden sailing ships, elves, dwarfs, and adventure! What was for centuries, nay millennia, our wildest fantasies will become your reality!
“Now, polite folk speak of Sylvan and Dwarrowdelf rather than elves and dwarfs, because, quite frankly, we are uncomfortable talking about it. Our feeling toward this whole matter has, as one writer put it, ‘almost a religious nature, like the favor of some god . . . to be treated with great respect, rarely named, referred to by allusion or alias, never explained.’
“Even the Sylvan and Dwarrowdelf themselves have embraced Tolkien as a fascinating form of semi-prophecy. Tolkien always did insist that the power of his work was in its “applicability” not its allegory, and now the applicability of his writing has come to have a form of widespread cultural influence very much like the Bible, but more secular and perhaps even broader in its impact. Yet they too are uncomfortable talking about it. Just as the Greek culture and language was embraced by the conquering Romans, so has our culture and language become the lingua franca for the elder races, and our literature, especially Tolkien, was key to that.
“Gentlemen, we may actually be looking at literal telepathic quality possessed by some of the most ‘prophetic’ earthworm authors. It’s truly remarkable to observe how many modern-day, high-tech marvels have their antecedents in fable. Scrying glasses, flying carpets, telephones, they’re all there. Almost makes you wonder. Though personally I believe we are looking at a case of parallel evolution. Fantasy makes our dreams and nightmares real. So does technology.”
Huh? thought Melville. Is this old geezer completely nuts?
* * *
Well, Melville had thought so at the time, but now here he was, stranded on a distant planet with a mad dwarven marine sergeant, a monkish purser, a beautiful elven surgeon, and a crew of stranded sailors, surrounded by dead aliens. And a pair of rangers who seemed to think they were Strider and Legolas, bringing the hosts of Mordor along behind them. “Ha!” he muttered, ” ‘rendezvous with destiny,’ my bleeding arse.”
<
Their attackers had first appeared in close pursuit of his two rangers, Josiah Westminster and Aubrey Valandil, as they returned, posthaste, from an extended foray downslope. They were looking for water. Instead they found company and brought them home for lunch.
Their gunshots, louder and louder as they drew near, heralded their return and marked their running battle through the woods for nearly a full turn of the glass. The entire company stood ready as the two buckskin-clad rangers burst from the emerald green tree line and began to race up the slope, their two dogs loping along at their heels, framed by the mouse gray trunks of two huge trees.
From his position on the military crest of the hill, Melville could look south at an endless sea of forest. How it stayed green in this arid land was a subject of discussion. Probably deep roots that reached into the water table. The thickly wooded forest ended abruptly around the hill, to form a bald knob covered with golden stubble, with a little clump of trees just below the crest on this south slope.
The exits from Flatland into living worlds usually came up on high ground. High ground which they now must defend or die.
Valandil was a Sylvan, and along with their surgeon he represented his species’ contribution to this first cooperative endeavor between the Sylvans and the Kingdom of Westerness. He was from Osgil itself, the oldest and greatest of the low-gee, heavily forested worlds that they loved. This world felt close to a standard Earth gravity, but even in a full gee the Sylvan ranger’s long strides carried him with the effortless grace of his race. He was slender and fair of face with his blond hair flowing behind him.
Josiah was Westerness born and bred. “Large, turbulent, generous, handsome, proud, and affectionate,” indeed. He was also broad shouldered, dark haired with a thick black mustache, and deeply tanned by a lifetime of experience under distant suns. His strides almost matched Valandil’s as they loped up the slope.
Few men can load a musket on the move, but this pair can load their double-barreled, rifled muskets at a dead run. At present, anything other than a run and they’d surely be dead.
The paper cartridges in their ammo pouches are actually two cartridges, held loosely together, side-by-side, by bits of waxed paper, with two percussion caps on top. There is a flash of their hands that is too fast to see even at close range. The rangers slap a paper tube of powder and minié ball into each barrel. At the same time the percussion caps are bitten off and held in their teeth. A flash of the double-barrel ramrod, the butt of the weapon bounces once on the ground as the ramrod seems to flick in and out. Another blur of hands as both hammers come back and the percussion caps are spit into place. They both spin and fire. Their dogs turn with them, looking on with doggy glee, adding their bark to their masters’ deadly bite.
“Ch-BANG!” The sound of percussion cap and black powder explosion blends into one sound as both rangers fire their first barrel. Their targets are still concealed behind the mouse gray boles of the emerald trees, but there can be little doubt that the two leading foes have suddenly been distracted by recent difficulties in normal biological processes . . . like breathing. Melville had never seen Josiah miss a man-sized target at 250 yards, and Valandil simply refused to waste the powder to prove that he could.
“Ch-BANG!,” again, as they both fire their second barrels. The instant the second shot is fired, the two rangers and two dogs spin and trot uphill. Four loads a minute is a good rate of fire for a veteran marine standing still. At a dead run these two rangers have their weapons loaded again before Melville can count to fifteen. Nothing less is expected from a ranger.
This time as they spin and fire, Melville can see their targets. A wave of dirty white apes surge out of the wood line, approximately a hundred yards behind them. “Ch-BANG! Ch-BANG!” Four gaps appear in the wave, only to be immediately filled.
In a running retreat such as this there are two possible strategies. Against cautious enemies who value their lives you can spread out your fire, and keep their heads down. The brave and foolish die first, and the rest will hopefully stay honest and cautious, keeping a respectful distance.
Against a truly determined and fearless enemy, the best you can do is pick off the ones in the lead. In a sort of enforced natural selection, the fastest die first. If you do this long enough and hard enough, and if you’re fast enough and lucky enough, maybe you can outrun the rest.
The furry white wave coming at Melville’s little company appeared to be singularly determined and fearless. What did they do to irk this lot? thought Melville as he watched them swarm out of the wood line. Probably the eternal story. Boy sees alien, alien sees food. Boy objects, alien takes offense. Whatever the reason for the alien attack, Melville’s force clearly wasn’t going to outrun this bunch. The only option was to stand and fight somewhere, and this was the spot.