Finally, he reached the rail and paused for a moment before jumping to the deck. Many of the creatures had gathered around, and they drew back at the sight of him, their inscrutable faces staring with large, feline eyes. They were every conceivable color, like three generations of kittens from a wanton barn cat. Long, fluffy tails twitched behind them, seemingly independent of their owners' stoic immobility. And they were short. He hadn't realized it, watching them through binoculars, but they were much shorter than he'd expected. The tallest he saw came only to his chin, and it was considerably taller than the others. He? She? He assumed it was a he, though he had no basis, yet, to make that guess. The majority of the creatures were dressed haphazardly, in what appeared to be a mixture of daily garb and the occasional piece of leather and copper armor. All seemed weary and many were wounded, but most were still armed with an axe or a short scimitar-like sword. Significantly, none were brandishing those weapons at him.
What set the tall one apart, aside from his height, was that he was covered entirely in a dark purple robe with large stars sewn across the shoulders, and the long-tailed hood was pulled tight around his face so that only his piercing gray eyes could be seen. The creatures nearest him seemed more alert than the rest, more detached from the moment, and they had a protective, proprietary air about them. Because of this, and his dress, Matt took him for a leader, or at least an authority figure of some kind. Gray clambered over the rail to join him and as he did, he put his hand on one of the enormous backstays supporting the center tripod. He took it away and looked at it. The stay was coated with thick black tar. He arched an eyebrow at his captain and Matt nodded. He'd seen it too. He stepped forward and the two of them, the robed figure and the naval officer, quietly faced one another while the rest of the party boarded. All the while, there was silence. Matt couldn't even fall back on Navy custom and salute their flag, for there was none, at least at present, but maybe . . . maybe that didn't matter. Tradition was tradition, and he expected even if they didn't understand it, they would recognize it as such. Maybe they would appreciate the respect that went with it.
Abruptly, he pivoted to his right, facing aft, and snapped a sharp salute. Then he turned to the robed figure and saluted him as well.
"Lieutenant Commander Matthew Reddy, United States Navy. I request permission to come aboard, sir."
The Lemurian blinked rapidly with what might have been surprise, and his lips stretched into what looked for all the world like a grin. Matt held the salute a moment longer, and then on impulse slowly lowered his hand until he held it, palm outward, toward the creature in the purple robe. Very deliberately, it pulled the hood from its face. It was still "grinning" broadly, although the expression didn't extend beyond its mouth. Matt suspected that, like cats, their faces weren't made to display emotions as humans did. The "grin," if that's what it was, spoke volumes, however, and now others nearby grinned too. To the amazement of the humans, the one in the robe carefully imitated Matt's salute and held up his hand as well. Matt heard a gasp behind him, as well as Gray's gravelly chuckle.
"Permission granted, Skipper," he said quietly.
The Lemurian clasped both his hands to his chest and spoke: "Adar."
Bradford pushed his way next to the captain. "Upon my word! Do you suppose he means he is Adar, or that's the name for his people?"
Matt sighed. "I was about to . . . ask him that, Mr. Bradford. Please, let's have no more outbursts. It might confuse them and I'm confused enough for us all right now." He pointed at the creature. "Adar?" he asked.
The Lemurian blinked twice and, if anything, his grin grew broader. He spread his hands out from his sides and bowed.
Matt clasped his own hands to his chest and said, "Matthew Reddy."
The creature struggled to wrap his mouth around the unfamiliar sounds. Then he made an attempt.
"Maa-tyoo Riddy."
Matt grinned back at him. "Pretty good." He turned and proceeded to name those who accompanied him, and then pointed across the water where the destroyer kept station. She really was a sight, he reflected. Streaks of rust covered her sides and the patched battle damage was made conspicuous by the fresher paint. The lizard firebomb had scorched a large section of her hull just aft of her number, and the paint was bubbled and flaking. Most of the crew was on deck at the moment too, watching them. The tattered Stars and Stripes fluttered near the top of the short mast aft.
"USS Walker," he said.
A respectful silence ensued that lasted while all the Lemurians gazed at his battered ship. Adar's grin went away and he somehow radiated solemnity when he spoke again.
"Waa-kur."
He blinked rapidly and gestured toward an opening in the large deckhouse behind him. He hesitated uncertainly, looking back, then strode purposefully through it. The other creatures cleared a lane. Apparently, he expected them to follow. Matt looked at the Bosun, who shrugged, and he glanced at the others and caught Sandra's eye. He shrugged too, and strode after the purple-robed figure, followed closely by his companions. Silva made a half-strangled, incredulous sound. Matt looked back.
"What . . . ?" Then he saw it too. Suddenly, there was no doubt Adar was male. For the first time—driving home how distracted they were— they realized many of the Lemurians staring with open curiosity were also openly, glaringly—very humanly—female. Except for bits of armor, none wore much more than a kind of skirt, or kilt. Supremely practical, since their tails made other types of clothing inconvenient, but few tunics were worn by anyone. Furry breasts of a shape and proportion entirely, fondly, familiar (except for the fur, of course) unself-consciously jutted at them from all directions. Not surprisingly, Silva was the first to notice.
"Oh, my God!" squeaked Newman.
"Fascinating!" breathed Bradford.
"Not unusual," said Sandra, a little sharply, Matt thought, and he saw her cheeks were pink. "Even `back home' it's not unusual at all for primitive people to go around like . . . this."
"Way too `unusual,' far as I'm concerned," whispered Felts, and Sandra's cheeks went darker.
"Silence!" growled Gray with less than normal vehemence. Clearing his throat, he went on, "Quit gawkin' at their dames! You want 'em to eat us? Pick up yer eyeballs. They're critters, for God's sake!"
Matt coughed. "Not `critters,' and not too `primitive' to take offense, so keep your eyes"—he looked straight at Silva—"and your hands to yourselves. That's an order!"
They stooped to enter the doorway, but inside was a much larger chamber than expected. It spanned the entire "ground" floor of the tower and the ceiling was as high as a college gym. Tapestries of coarse but ornately woven fibers decorated the walls, and large overstuffed pillows lay about the room in groups. It was a scene of considerable opulence compared to the scorched and bloodstained exterior. But even here, the scent of burnt wood and charred flesh and fur was all-pervading. Matt wondered how long that dreadful smell would linger like a shroud. In the center of the hall, the ceiling opened up to allow a strange-looking tree to rise, far above their heads. The only trees he knew were live oaks, cedars, and mesquite, so he couldn't tell if it was more like a palm tree or a pine. But whichever, the thick, strangely barked trunk rose ten or fifteen feet before it branched into stubby limbs with delicate, greenish-gold palmated leaves. He looked at it curiously, but was more intrigued by the shape of another Lemurian seated on a stool at a small table nearby.