''Ya did that one right, lass, but ya remember ya tellin' me that you'd do what I told ya to.''
''Yes.''
''Well, that also means waiting for me to tell you what ta do. For now, ya just go hand over hand until ya got the caper standin' tall.'' She did. Soon, she found herself with her hands high over her head and her strapless gown playing an interesting game of show and tell. She managed to get the caber standing straight up with little shown and less to tell about it. A few wolf whistles soon changed into a ragged cheer as she finished. Leaning against the caber, she did the cute curtsey she'd learned at four or five… and the cheer grew louder.
Through a wide grin she whispered to Douglas, ''What next?''
''The hard part, lassie.'' He quickly whispered to Kris how she was suppose to go from leaning on the caber, it's butt on the ground, to holding the bottom of the caber in both her hands, leaning it against her shoulder while she leaned her shoulder against it. ''Ya got that?'' Kris measured the expectant shouts from the crowd of Greenfeld sailors, males all, and her own expectation of success and found that the only future ahead for her involved either a successful caber toss or going down in flaming failure. Had that agent planned this as his fall-back plan if he didn't succeed in driving her into the turf with that falling pole? Nah, this is just another one of my dumb stunts.
Someone shouted, ''Hey, that's Princess Longknife. How many of you want to toss a caber like her?'' And a line began to form.
That cinched it, walking away was not an option.
Kris reviewed the old fellow's instructions and squatted down, thanking her mother for the ballet lessons that had kept her supple all those years. ''Gee, Mother, I do owe you.''
Fingers interlaced around the pole, shoulder against it, she felt the top of it begin a wild weaving pattern that threw the weight of it first right, then left, then front, then back. She held it there until it steadied for a moment, then made the lift from the knees, feet widespread. She felt all kinds of things go wrong in places she hadn't expected to feel until that undefined future day when she might give birth to some poor girl with a nose too long. Kris struggled to shuffle her legs closer together. Oh, and somehow, she also kept the caber upright enough to not get out of control and lay her and it out flat.
Douglas had called this the spider dance and said she'd understand it when she was doing it. Yes, it would have been nice to have eight legs at the moment, but she only had the two God gave her and she was busy working them like four. For a second, the caber took off on its own, but she managed to stutter jump to her left and catch the center of gravity again.
I've flown ships to orbit, standing them up on just a pillar of flame. Surely I can balance a five meter pole in my own hands. Course, the ship had an inertial guidance platform and all I have is my head. I am not gonna let a machine beat me!
The dance went on for a couple of weeks, maybe less. It was still dark and the moon was about in the same part of the sky when Kris found herself where Douglas said she should be. She stood. The butt of the caber was in the palm of her hands. She leaned against it while it leaned against her left shoulder.
Oh, and her dress had all kinds of tar streaks on it. Abby was not going to be happy.
''That's some Manual at Arms your doing, Princess,'' someone shouted from the back of the crowd.
''I don't see you in line to try it yourself,'' Jack shouted back. While Kris got her breath for what had to be an easier finish, MacNab sent the kids with armbands to form the sailors into six lines to match the six cabers they had. Since the crowd of gawkers in front of Kris got very thin, most everyone around must have gotten in line.
Kris had her breath back… and her arms and legs were beginning to scream at the abuse… when MacNab was back at her elbow. ''You're going to want to let the caber begin to topple over,'' he pointed downfield. ''Ya go along with it, picking up speed. When ya feel you're in the best spot, ya put everything ya have into lifting up the butt of it and tossing it up and out. The idea is to have the other end of the thing land first. If the butt lands first, or it just kind o‘ lays down lengthwise, it no been tossed and it no counts. Understand?''
''I'm not doing this again.''
''You'd have to wait in a long line to get another chance,'' Ron said, looking back where Kris didn't dare spare a glance.
Kris let the caber begin to fall. Slowly at first, then faster, she chased after it. She'd calculated ballistics since she was in middle school. She'd flown orbital skiffs by the seat of her pants. Certainly this couldn't be worse than those.
But orbital skiffs only took a flick of a finger to send them turning. This caber was dragging along her whole body, sucking every ounce of strength she had. One misstep on this grassy field, one stumble in the dark, and all she'd done would be for nothing. She'd be a joke to all these Greenfeld sailors.
Worse, she'd be a girl.
Kris found all the strength she had… plus an extra boost from anger… and hurled the caber high.
MacNab dropped a marker where Kris's foot was when she hefted it, then watched as the pole arched high and executed a perfect ballistic flight to slam down, nose first, in the grass.
''Well done. Well done, Lass,'' he called. ''That won't be a record, but it would be a good finish in any game I've bossed in my thirty years of doing the honors.''
Now there were cheers from the crowd behind Kris. She turned to them and did a formal curtsey. The cheers got louder. Ron presented Kris with a towel. She tried and failed to clean the mess off her hands as they headed back for the racetrack. The sailors opened a path for them, to shouts of ''Good going.''
''Good shot.''
''Great doing, for a girl.''
Before Kris could make a comeback, a sailor provided one for her. ''My sister could have done just as well. We ought to let the girls have chances like that.'' That started an argument, that, fueled with beer, was best left to the sailors to resolve.
''We should get back to the port,'' Jack suggested. ''We do have a shuttle to catch.''
''And you don't want to be there when Hank and his mob start filling up the sky,'' Ron said. ''I'm not sure there's a designated driver in the batch.''
''Wasn't there anyone to take the drunks off your hands at the liberty launches?'' Kris said.
''The first report back said the launches are deserted. No one standing guard. No pilot standing by.''
Kris shook her head. ''What are your security people doing with the drunks?''
'' ‘Rolling them up and putting them in the long boat.' ''
''But,'' Kris started, then stopped.
''Oh Lord, but those boats are going to stink come midnight,'' Jack said, almost in pain at the thought of it.
''I'm sure you want to ride up in the work shuttle.''
''Please, Mr. Mayor,'' Kris said.
They took a different way back into the Oktoberfest that put them at the opposite end of the street. With a guy on each arm, Kris looked forward to the walk. Farthest from the busses that had brought the sailors was the Heidelberg. A glance inside showed Kris several wide, smiling women working the taps… ensconced behind an equally wide bar.
She brought her men to a halt, ending the happy stroll. But before she could open her mouth, she spotted the difference between the Heidelberg and other Beergartens tonight. The tables, row on row, were filled with chiefs, older, maybe a bit more sober, but definitely quieter.
''So that's where all the NCOs are,'' Jack said.
''In there, not drinking with their own men. Not making any effort to keep discipline or order,'' Kris mused.
''I thought having a separate club for the chiefs was normal. At least that's what Hank's contact man told us,'' Ron said.
''Right,'' Kris said. ''Still, you'd expect them to keep an eye on their men, hold them to a certain level of behavior. Maybe not as high as their moms and dads, but…''