They stood and greeted her with strained smiles, and Lieutenant Shinya nodded politely. They couldn't have avoided overhearing Karen's sobs, or indeed much of the women's conversation. Sandra realized with a start that Matt's "smile" seemed even more troubled than the others'. As soon as they resumed their seats, Juan appeared at her elbow and poured a cup of weak coffee (he'd begun to conserve) that she'd have mistaken for tea if not for the smell. Ordinarily, in meetings like these, Juan would have excused himself, but ever since the Squall, he often lingered, and Matt didn't send him away. He figured it was easier to inform the crew through the grapevine than make announcements every day. Besides, Juan would be careful what he passed on.
"I trust you're well?" asked Bradford. "Mr. Shinya told us your efforts were tireless."
Sandra smiled wanly. "Not tireless," she said. "It's been a tough"—she paused and looked reflective—"but interesting day. I think we were a help, once I figured out when to leave well enough alone, and we learned a lot."
The others nodded solemnly.
"True," said Matt, "but I wish you hadn't stayed behind."
"I wasn't alone. Lieutenant Shinya was there."
Matt glanced at the Japanese officer speculatively but nodded.
"As were several armed men," Tamatsu said. "She was in no danger. Your gunner's mate . . . Silva? He is a formidable man. If the lieutenant had been threatened in any way, I believe he would have contrived to destroy their ship around us, by himself."
Gray grunted. "Silva!" he muttered. "He's part of what I was worried about." Everyone, including Tamatsu, laughed at that.
"Well," said Matt, "you must be starving. Juan? Pass the word for sandwiches, if you please." The Filipino bowed his head and whispered through the wardroom curtain. There was no telling who was on the other side, but he returned to his place against the hull with the expression of one who fully expected the task to be performed.
"While we're waiting, tell us what happened when you went to see this Keje again," Matt suggested. "Lieutenant Shinya said you should be the one to speak, but I'd like to hear what you both have to say."
Sandra nodded. "He was weak from his wounds, but not debilitated, I think. Their medicine's not nearly as primitive as I expected. They have no concept of germ theory, but their infection rate is low. They clean wounds with hot water for no other reason I could see than that it just makes sense to do so. They hold cleanliness in high regard." She glanced down at her uniform blouse and wrinkled her nose to the sound of sympathetic chuckles. "They also apply a kind of salve to wounds that must be antibacterial in some way, in addition to being a local analgesic. I asked for a sample and they gave me a whole jar. There's no telling if it'll be helpful to humans, and I don't know what it's made of yet, but I want to try some on Seaman Davis, with your permission. His fever just won't go away. He's still in danger of losing his leg, at least."
Bradford nodded enthusiastically, but Matt regarded her thoughtfully. Gray looked downright dubious. "I know they believe in the stuff—nearly everybody over there had some smeared on 'em, but do we know it actually works?"
Sandra held out her hands palm up. "The only evidence I have after so short a time is their absolute faith and certainty. Many of their wounds were bites, you know, and some who were bitten far worse than Davis were treated with the stuff and considered lightly injured."
Matt scratched his ear. "Does it have the same effect on the Grik? I mean, have they used any on the Grik wounded and if so, do they think it'll work?"
Sandra glanced down at her hands, clasped on the table. When she looked back up, her expression was hooded. "There were no Grik wounded, Captain."
"But . . . that's impossible!" interrupted the Australian. "They can't all have died! It's imperative I see one alive!"
"There were no Grik survivors on the Lemurian ship, Mr. Bradford," Sandra restated. "Many committed suicide after they were abandoned, mostly by jumping into the sea. The rest were . . . helped over the side by the Lemurians."
"No prisoners, then," Captain Reddy observed quietly.
"No, sir." Sandra shook her head. "Like everything else we've observed in this world, there's no compromise between total victory and total defeat. You win or you die. Warfare among the Lemurians themselves— at least `Home against Home'—is so rare there's no memory of it. They have their problems, sure, but evidently they don't kill each other over them, beyond the rare duel. The Grik, however, are the `Ancient Enemy'— that's how they're referred to. Their conflict literally extends beyond their history, although pitched battles like the one we intervened in are rare, if not unheard of. Mostly, they've only had to contend with what amount to harassing attacks or raids. But the frequency is increasing, and no one's ever heard of attacks by six Grik ships at once."
"Any idea why they do it?" Matt probed.
"Not really. In spite of the Grik being the Ancient Enemy, the Lemurians don't know a lot about them. They just know that when the Grik come, the Grik attack. It's the way of things. They fight like maniacs and they don't take prisoners, so neither do the Lemurians." She rubbed her tired eyes. "I'm not sure they even understand the concept of surrender." She glanced at Lieutenant Shinya and was struck by how similar to his culture, in that respect at least, the Lemurians had been forced to become. However, unlike Imperial Japan, the Lemurians were anything but militaristic and expansionist. She noticed the others looking speculatively at the Japanese officer as well, but Tamatsu endured their stares with stoic indifference. If he was troubled by their scrutiny, he didn't let it show.
"Well," said Matt, and sighed with slight relief. "Maybe we're not stuck in such a big war after all—just a really long one." There were chuckles. "The Lemurians fought well against a really scary enemy, but if they thought the Grik were a major problem, I think they'd be better prepared. Be more warlike themselves. With a few simple expedients, I don't think a dozen Grik ships could board something as big as their ship." There were nods, but Sandra wasn't sure. America hadn't been very prepared for Pearl Harbor.
"Anyway," said Matt, "we were talking about the salve." He let out a long breath. "Try it, if Davis is willing. I won't force him to take some alien cure." Sandra nodded acceptance. She knew Matt must have hoped she could experiment on a wounded Grik first, but if the stuff worked as advertised, it would save Davis's leg. She'd done all she could, but the bite had left an incredibly persistent infection. His immune system was fighting it, but she didn't expect it could do so indefinitely or totally. She was sure she could get him to try it.
Bradford leaned forward in his chair. "Did you get any indication why our first meeting with their leader was so short?" he asked. "He seemed alert, eager, and energetic at first, particularly after we established communications. Then, suddenly, he spoke a few words, and we were ushered out. Was that normal protocol?"
"I don't think so," answered Sandra. "Maybe we did take them by surprise. He was probably under medication of some sort, something to make him sleep—they also put great store in the healing power of sleep, by the way—but . . ." She lowered her voice and looked pointedly at the curtain.
Matt noticed the direction of her glance. "Sergeant Alden, clear the passageway. I'm sure if there's anybody in it they have duties elsewhere."
"I will go check the sandwiches," said Juan. "Do not stir, Sergeant. I will shoo them off."
When the steward left, they all looked back at Sandra expectantly.