"What'll happen now?" Matt asked when their party was complete.
The answer ultimately translated that they would soon pay their respects to "U-Amaki Ay Baalkpan," Nakja-Mur, where they would eat and drink and tell their tale. In addition to the fact that they had a wondrous tale to tell, it had been more than two years since they'd been here, and the local potentate was somehow related to Keje. There would be much to celebrate.
At the mention of "drink" and "celebrate" Matt considered sending the ratings back to the ship, but finally decided against it. They didn't seem the least inclined to go haring off on their own, and at least Silva wasn't among them. He doubted Lemurian society was quite prepared for the likes of Dennis Silva on the loose. God knew his men deserved liberty after their ordeal, but he wanted to learn a bit more about this place before he granted it.
A procession was forming in the waist and nearly every 'Cat on Big Sal was part of it. Bright kilts and garish costumes were the uniform of the day, and the tumult and chaos of the happy, grinning throng was almost as loud as the battle against the Grik. There'd be liberty for them, at least, and they were prepared to make the most of it.
"All Amer-i-caans not come land?" Keje asked in his stilted English.
"No, Your Excellency, not yet. My ship is very tired and has many needs. This is the first time she has stopped among friends where it's safe to make repairs. There's much to do."
"Work tomorrow! Tonight is glory-party. Friends meet friends!"
"Perhaps later," Matt demurred. With a polite but brittle smile he excused himself and stepped to the rail, where he looked out to his anchored ship in the dwindling light. Even to his prejudiced eye she looked physically exhausted. When he had first assumed command of DD-163, she'd seemed old-fashioned and undergunned, but in spite of that she'd given the impression that she tugged at her leash like a nostalgic thorough-bred—past her prime but not yet out to pasture. Now she just looked worn-out. Rust streaked her sides from stem to stern, and the hasty repairs stood out like running sores. A continuous jet of water gushed from her bilge as the overworked pumps labored to keep her leaky hull afloat.
The anchor chain hung slack, and instead of straining against it she looked burdened by the weight. He was surprised by a stabbing sense of sadness and concern.
Sandra had joined him, unnoticed in the hubbub. "A coat of paint and she'll be good as new," she said brightly, guessing his thoughts. He looked at her pretty, cheerful face, but saw the concern in her eyes. His brittle smile shattered like an egg dropped on the deck, and he saw her expression turn to anguish. For an instant her compassion was more than he could bear. He forced a grin that was probably closer to a grimace, but as she continued to look at him, her hand suddenly on his arm, his face slowly softened into a wistful smile. How did she do that? In a single, sharp, wrenching moment, she'd stripped his veneer and bared his inner torment, but with only the slightest touch, she'd buried it again. Deeper than before.
"It'll take more than a coat of paint, I'm afraid," he whispered. He saw Keje beyond her, motioning at the spot beside him. "Looks like they're ready to go." Unwilling to break the contact, he crooked his elbow and held his arm out for her. "Care to join me?"
Keje and Adar, along with Matt and Sandra, threaded their way through the throng and took places at the head of the procession. Bradford was several paces back, behind the wing clan chiefs and Keje's other officers.
Chack and Garrett were with him, as were the two other destroyermen.
They weren't carrying rifles, but they had sidearms and the ridiculous cutlasses. Bradford wasn't wearing one, even though they were as much his idea as Gray's. The one time he did, he'd somehow managed to cut himself without even drawing it completely from its scabbard. He wasn't wearing a pistol either, but only because he'd forgotten it when he changed his clothes. Captain Reddy wore his Academy sword. With many hoots and jubilant cries from the ship as well as the dock, the procession began to move and they marched down the gangway, into the teeming city.
The festivities were heard across the water, beyond Big Sal, where Walker rested at last. Spanky McFarlane wiped greasy hands on a rag tucked into his pocket. His sooty face was streaked with sweat. "Sounds like a hell of a party," he said, staring at the shore.
"Yup," said Silva, and he spat a stream of tobacco juice over the side.
Stites leaned on the rail by the number two gun, a cigarette between his lips. Spanky fished a battered pack out of his shirt pocket and shook one out. Silva handed him a Zippo. "Think we're gonna get fuel here?" he asked.
"Dunno. Hope so. We're down to seven thousand gallons, so we ain't looking for it anywhere else."
"Not without burning wood, I hear," Stites put in. Spanky glowered at him. "I reckon if anybody can squeeze oil out of the monkey-cats, the Skipper will. He's done okay."
"No arguments there," Silva grunted. "I just wish I knew what we're gonna have to do to get it—and what we're gonna do then."
Spanky looked at him curiously. "What difference would it make if you did?"
Silva grinned. "None, I guess." He walked to the rail and leaned on it beside Stites. "Might be fun to go ashore. Kick up my heels." His face darkened. "Ain't no women, though. That's gonna get tough, fast."
"All them other nurses gone on Mahan," Stites grumped, "and the only two dames in the whole wide world is officers. Where's the justice in that?"
"Maybe there're women somewhere," encouraged Spanky. "The Skipper thinks so. Those lizard ships were human enough, and the monkey-cats speak Latin, of all things. We can't be the only people who ever wound up here."
"Then we better find fuel quick so we can start lookin' for 'em," Stites muttered emphatically.
"Oh, I don't know," Silva reflected. "Some of them cat-monkey gals are kinda cute, if you don't mind that furry, European style."
Stites looked at him with wide eyes. "Shit, Dennis, you're one sick bastard!" After a moment, though, he scratched his cheek. "'Course, after a while, who knows?"
Spanky cleared his throat. He knew—well, suspected—the men were joking and that was fine. But the joke was barbed and reflected a very real concern. Best keep it a joke for now. "I wouldn't worry about it. Strikes me they have higher standards, and I doubt you'd measure up. A goat wouldn't be satisfied with a deck-ape."
Silva affected offense. "Now, sir, that's no way for an officer to talk.
Downright uncharitable. Keepin' all the goats to yourselves might dee-stroy the perfect harmony between the apes and snipes!"
Spanky laughed out loud. "I'll bear that in mind."
Of course, if the rumors he'd overheard about Silva trying to "murder" Laney were true, there was little harmony left to destroy. Officially, a rusted pin broke. With nobody, even Laney, saying otherwise, that's all there was to it. But tensions were high. So far, everyone was too busy working together to keep the ship afloat for things to get out of hand— except the "joke" on Laney. Spanky was sure that was all it was. Silva played rough and maybe Laney had it coming. He could be a real jerk. It was even kind of funny—since nobody died—and Laney sure wasn't as puffed up as usual. But once the ship was out of danger, they better find one of two things pretty quick: dames or a fight. If they ever added boredom to their fear and frustration, the "jokes" would stop being funny at all.
The procession wound through the heart of the open-air market that was the city of "Baalkpan." It was somehow reassuring that the name of the place was derived from the ancient charts the Lemurians considered sacred. If nothing else, it proved that whoever transcribed or inspired the Scrolls didn't speak Latin as a first language. Matt wasn't positive; his historical interests were focused elsewhere, but he was pretty sure the place-names in the region had been given or recorded by the Dutch within the last two or three hundred years. That also meant that whatever religious importance the Lemurians placed on the Scrolls was a relatively new addition to their dogma. Not its sole foundation. Other than that fleeting thought, however, at the moment he and his companions were far more interested in their surroundings.