''Bad precedent, Ron,'' said the coach.
''We get through this visit and I'll visit every school and explain why I did it and tell them we'll give them unshirted hell if they do it again.''
''I've got the call tree already going. My wife and kids are calling as we speak. My teams ought to start showing up in five, ten minutes.'' There was as chuckle. ''I think some of them may be just down the street, waiting for word to come.''
Ron rang off. ''Wrestlers, football players?'' Kris said.
''That was Randy Gomez, head coach at University of Last Chance. He's calling every kid involved in any of the ever-popular, nasty contact sports played at our local schools.'' Ron looked up the street. A pick-up with a youngster at the wheel and more in the back rolled up to the yellow tape that excluded traffic from the five blocks of Oktoberfest. Those that jumped down were uniformly tall, bulky, looking eager and mean enough to chew red-hot steel for breakfast come morning.
''Have they been trained in police procedures?'' Jack asked.
''One hour last week. I had my best deputies show riot-control techniques to their classes,'' Gassy muttered. ''But I'll team five of them with two of my deputies or reservists. With luck a drunk will take one look at their prospects and give it up. If not, well, things may get interesting before those liberty launches lift off.''
Ron's wrist chimed, he gave it a ''what now'' look and tapped it. ''Please be kind to your ever-friendly mayor,'' he said.
''Don't know how kind this is, but we're having trouble getting the Highland Games started. Could you stop by and maybe offer some insights into what I'm doing wrong. What is it with sailor suits? This is always so much easier when the guys and gals wear kilts.''
So Kris, Ron and Jack turned for the college two short blocks away. But the walk got longer because the stadium was on the far side of the campus. And the sidewalks meandered around trees and a fountain. ''Is this supposed to isolate the jocks from learning, or those who want to learn from anything resembling physical exercise?'' Jack asked the rising moon.
''I think it's lovely,'' Ron said, putting an arm around Kris. It wasn't that cold, but his touch sent a shiver down Kris's spine. She leaned against his shoulder and enjoyed the walk.
A shot ended that.
They'd just come around the south side of the bleachers to the track. They spotted the source of the shot before Jack had his Navy-issue pistol out. Unfortunately, Kris had raised her skirt, showing a lot of leg, and the weapon hiding in her garter.
''That's where I figured it for,'' Jack said, but all three of them were mesmerized by the sight of manly excellence before them as runners raced around the track… or whatever.
One sailor had come out of his crouch at the sound of the gun, stumbled for two steps, and fallen on his face and was now adding vomit to the blood that speckled the track. Others were worse. Two charged down the track, bounced off each other, and took off in directions that had nothing to do with the chalk lines drawn for the race. One seaman started fast. Stopped. Looked around at the shouting crowd… and turned tail. He was now racing the wrong way as fast as his legs could carry him.
Three, no, four sailors were still galloping along in the right direction at speeds that put the Interstellar Track and Field records well out of reach.
''I ask ya', is this normal?'' said a thin old fellow, a few wisps of white hair combed over his sunburned scalp. The clipboard in his hand and the kilt that didn't reach to his knees identified him as someone in charge. ''I mean, I heard tales of some mighty god-awful drinking at Paris when they finished up the Society, and there was mention in our newsletters of the worst sporting events in the history of the Games, but this. ‘Tis…'' he seemed at a loss for words and settled for ''disgusting.''
''I've heard that beer and physical excellence don't mix, but I never saw such solid proof,'' Jack said, covering a smile.
''I had other fun and games at Paris,'' Kris said vaguely.
Ron did the introductions. Douglas MacNab ran the city's annual Highland Games. ''Not sure that qualifies me for this. We finally locked up the stones and hammers. I'm afear they'd do more damage to themselves and my school if I hadn'a.''
''You going to Caber?'' Kris asked, eyes lighting up.
''No,'' Jack said.
''I'm still trying,'' Douglas said, ''but it's no easy to get these boys to even line up, much less listen to how it's done.''
''What if I show them?'' Kris said through a widening grin.
''What if you don't,'' Jack said.
''I'm not sure about this,'' Ron added.
''But I've always wanted to toss a caber. I can't tell you how many times I had to shake hands through a Highland Game for Father's campaign and never got to tossing one of those poles.''
MacNab ran a hand through what was left of his hair. ''We let the kids play at this because they do what I tell ‘em, and their parents sign waivers. I don't see anyone around to sign a waiver for you, lassie.''
''I'm over twenty-one,'' Kris said eagerly.
He eyed her over his spectacles. ''And will you listen to what I tell ya.''
''Of course,'' Kris said.
''No way,'' Jack said.
''I'm not too sure about this,'' Ron said again.
''Where's the caber toss?'' Kris asked.
''On the other side of the seats,'' MacNab said, and led the way. Beside them, the four remaining runners were losing speed at a rapid clip. One of them shouted for a beer and took a hard right into the infield toward an honest-to-God beer wagon, complete with four beautifully groomed horses.
''Aren't those horses lovely,'' Kris said.
''Let's detour for an hour or two and say hi, Princess.'' Jack's suggestion almost reached the level of an order.
Ron's ''Yes'' was merely civilian-strength suggestion.
Kris kept walking; they reached the end of the seats just in time for Kris to catch something out of the corner of her eye.
She did a quick jump back. A long, thick pole slammed down in front of her, exactly where she'd been. If her oversize nose had been a hair longer, it would definitely have been shortened.
''Oops,'' said a sailor at the other end of the caber.
''Sorry, ma'am,'' said a second. A third, one of those older types Kris was spotting now and then, said nothing as he stepped back and disappeared into a milling crowd of sailors around a second beer wagon, complete with horses.
''Princess, I strongly suggest you go get acquainted with that team of horses,'' Jack said, undoing the flap on his holster. ''Ron, Douglas, who's the head of security for this layout?''
There was a delay while Kris was introduced to Hilo Kalako, Chief Deputy, and the two men and four boys at his side. But while they talked their line of business, Kris spotted a half dozen cabers laid out and walked over to make their acquaintance.
''How do you lift one of these?'' she asked Douglas.
''Da I not recall you saying you'd do what Ah told ya?''
''I did.''
''Then stick those fine pale fingers of yours in this,'' he said, holding a bucket of strong smelling black stuff for Kris.
''I didn't say I wouldn't ask questions. So, what is it?''
''Tar and other stuff you'll be needing to hold on to the caber when you want to be holding on, and let it be slipping a bit when ya need that.'' Kris sank her hands into the goo.
''Abby would not approve,'' Jack said, coming up behind Kris.
''I think you're right on that,'' Kris agreed.
''Who's Abby?'' Ron asked. ''Your mother?''
''Close,'' Jack said. ''Her maid.''
Ron said nothing to that. Kris eyed the long wooden pole and frowned. ''Which end of the pole do I pick up first?''
''Normally you wouldna be asking that,'' MacNab said. ''The last one to make a toss is supposed to stand the caber up for the next. But you're first, and me old back isn't up to this kind of lifting no more.''
''So I'll do it,'' Kris said, and stooped down, lifted one end into her lap, then stood up the rest of the way, carefully using her knees for the lift.