"Thank you, Captain. All I really wanted to say, though, is that quite a lot of Lemurian medicine is evidently intoxicating. They brought out some stuff that nearly got me drunk just smelling it. Even the salve seems to make them a little dopey. I think when we arrived, their captain, or whatever he is, had just taken a dose of something, and when it started to hit him he sent us away." She grinned. "I don't think he wanted to be tipsy in front of the powerful strangers."
"Indeed?" Bradford said appreciatively. "I wish more of our statesmen would refrain from conducting business in such condition."
There was a knock on the bulkhead beyond the curtain.
"Sandwiches, Cap-tan."
"Thanks, Juan. Come in, please." Juan stepped through the curtain and held it for Ray Mertz, the mess attendant, who carried a platter piled high with ham sandwiches. He set it on the table, then he and the steward ducked quickly back down the passageway. Everyone dug in immediately, and Sandra closed her eyes when she bit into the thick slice of ham nestled between two pieces of fresh-baked bread. With just a little mustard, it tasted heavenly. She was even hungrier than she'd thought. The Lemurians had offered them food, but it smelled strange and she wasn't ready to trust the local fare. Silva had eaten some of the purple fruit, and she wondered absently how he was feeling about now.
"So, what else did you talk about during your second meeting?" Matt asked.
Sandra sped her chewing and swallowed at last. "Well, pretty much the main point was that their leader, Keje-Fris-Ar, wants to come aboard us here. Tomorrow."
"Here they come!" Dowden said unnecessarily when the boat cast off and moved in their direction. Almost an hour earlier, they'd been surprised to see a large section of the Lemurian's hull, about twenty feet wide, open and swing outward, releasing a low, wide-beamed barge. The compartment, or whatever it was, had water in it, and the boat just floated out. There it stayed for a time, already crewed, until the more important passengers were lowered into it by means of a large platform that descended from the deck above.
"That's some trick," murmured McFarlane, scratching the young beard on his chin. He glanced apologetically at the captain. "Structurally, I mean. It's like they go around with a fully enclosed harbor. Makes sense, as far as they'd have to lower a boat, but the engineering problems and stresses involved must've been something else."
"The structural engineering capabilities of the Lemurians are quite formidable," said Bradford. "To construct such a colossal ship to begin with . . . well." He shrugged.
Captain Reddy, carefully groomed and resplendent in his whites—as were all his officers—glanced around the ship. They'd done their best to make her presentable, but the ravages she'd undergone were evident everywhere. Even a visiting admiral would understand, but he wanted to make a big impression. It would have to do. The crew was dressed as sharply as possible, but most had dyed their whites in coffee—as ordered—at the start of the war, and the result was an unsavory mottled khaki. Now, with the passage of time, most of the coffee had leached out in the wash and they only looked dirty. He grunted. The order had come down from somebody who thought the ships would be more difficult to spot from the air without a bunch of white uniforms running around on deck. It was one of the sillier of the panicky and often contradictory orders they'd been issued right after the attacks on Pearl Harbor and Cavite.
There was nothing he could do about it other than group the men who still had whites separately from those who didn't, as if there were some great reason for it. It was all entirely symbolic, but he didn't know how important a part symbolism might ultimately play. He spoke to the Bosun.
"Assemble your side party, Chief. I'll join you shortly." He absently hitched the Sam Browne to distribute the unaccustomed weight of the holstered pistol and the other . . . object suspended from it. He grimaced. While running an inventory of their small-arms ammunition, Campeti discovered a crate of heavy long-bladed cutlasses, pattern of 1918, that had probably been commissioned with the ship. There were four dozen of the things in heavy blue-gray canvas-wrapped scabbards, and they looked absolutely new. Gray suggested that the officers wear them so the Lemurians would see weapons they recognized. He didn't intend it as a threatening gesture, or so he said, but to show the 'cats—even while they were surrounded by all sorts of incomprehensible things—that they shared some basic similarities.
Matt resisted the idea as ridiculous. If they had to fight with swords, a dozen of the Lemurians could slaughter them all, judging by their skill against the Grik. But Courtney Bradford weighed in on Gray's side, surprisingly, with the comment that it might be wise to remind their visitors that they were, after all, warriors. Matt grudgingly relented and ordered all the officers, POs—and especially the Bosun—to wear one of the damn things. He had it easier. Instead of the heavy cutlass, he had his ornate Naval Academy dress sword, which he'd worn precisely twice—once at graduation and once at a friend's wedding. He knew it was a fine blade, and it had certainly cost him enough, but even now he couldn't imagine any eventuality that would force him to draw it in anger. He looked down at the fat barge, pitching on the choppy swell as it came alongside. Hitching his belt up again, he stepped quickly down the pilothouse steps to the deck.
Heaved to, Walker wallowed sickeningly even in these light swells, her low freeboard giving them periodic glimpses of the approaching party as the ship rolled. It was going to be tricky—and a little undignified— gaining the deck of the destroyer after the genteel fashion in which the Lemurian leaders were lowered into their barge, but there was no help for it. Besides, the creatures looked better equipped to climb the treacherous rungs than humans were. Gray took his place with the side party, Carl Bashear with him, and raised the pipe to his lips.
"You want me to do it?" Bashear whispered as the first Lemurian hopped onto the rungs and quickly neared the top.
"No, damn it. If anybody's gonna pipe aliens aboard Walker, it's gonna be me."
The piercing wail of the Bosun's pipe startled the burly Lemurian with the reddish-brown coat, but then he cocked his head at the Chief with interested recognition. He seemed even more startled when all those present saluted. He wore the same copper-scaled tunic as the day before, but the bloodstains had been cleaned and the scales had been polished to a flashing glory. Beneath the armor, he wore a long blue shirt, finely embroidered with fanciful fishes and adorned with shimmering scales like sequins around the cuffs. A long mane covered his head and extended to the sides of his face like huge muttonchops and was gathered and tied at the nape of his neck with a bright ribbon. His very ape-like feet were bound in sandals with a crisscrossing mesh of copper-studded straps extending to his knees. From a baldric across his chest hung a short, fat-bladed sword, securely tied into its scabbard with another bright ribbon formed into an elaborate bow. He looked around for a moment, as if taking everything in—the aft funnels with their wisps of smoke, the fourinch gun above, the torpedo tubes.
And, of course, the people. He looked from face to face until he recognized Matt. Then he grinned a very human grin and faced aft and saluted the flag that stood out from the short mast. He turned to Matt, still grinning, and saluted again. With evident difficulty, his mouth formed the unfamiliar words: "Meeshin ta caamaa-burd, zur?"
There were incredulous murmurs, and Matt realized his jaw had gone slack. Sandra, standing behind him, leaned forward and whispered in his ear. "We spent about an hour on that yesterday. He wanted to do it. He said he owed it to our people."
Soon the entire Lemurian party, numbering almost a dozen, was aboard. To the surprise and delight of the assembled destroyermen, all saluted the flag and the captain. It was an important and very moving moment, and the Lemurians couldn't have done anything that would have more thoroughly ingratiated themselves with Walker's crew. Grimaces and glances of suspicion disappeared, and a mood of camaraderie prevailed as Matt led the delegation under the amidships deckhouse, where refreshments were laid out. It wasn't much, but Juan, Earl Lanier, and Ray Mertz had done their best with what they had. On the stainless-steel counter running the length of the galley, a variety of light dishes were arrayed, along with carafes of iced tea.