''Don't you think you ought to come down?'' Ron asked.
''He won't touch the tower when he's this far out,'' Kris told the mayor. ''That would give away his intent and assure he had a shoot-out on his hands. No, Ron, I'm as safe as you are. Can you connect me with Jack?''
''I don't know how he stands you doing what you do.''
''It's what I do, Ron. It's what a Longknife does.''
''You're crazy. Jack, here's that crazy woman of yours.''
''What's wrong with him?'' Jack asked.
''I think he's discovering that I'm not quite the nice girl he was thinking it would be fun to fall in love, or at least infatuation, with.'' Then Kris switched to the business at hand and briefed Jack on what she could see from the tower.
''You tell me to be careful when I sneak out in front of our main line of resistance, and then you climb to the top of the main target in town. No wonder Ron is shaking the dust of you from his sandals.''
''I'll get down before Hank gets too close, which is more than I can say for Ernie. He's staked the place out for himself and his favorite mistress. They're plotting sex games for tonight based on who does the craziest thing up here.''
Ernie's beaming grin did not disagree with her.
''I got to quit hanging around you, girl. I got to. Okay, I'm going to keep the watch here. There're a couple of crazy teenagers who want to help. I've frisked them for switchblades, guns, relativity bombs, the basics, and I'm letting them ride skateboards on the berm. They'll let us know when Hank's close.''
''He has a brass band.''
''Hank does? Still, he might let them have a break. And who knows how long this land line hookup will work.''
''Send the kids out. Make sure they know to get gone when the sailors show up.'' Kris rang off, picked up her binoculars and checked. Hank was halfway down the review line of troops.
''This waiting is going to be the pits,'' Ernie said. ''Maybe we could send him some busses.''
The chief raised his eyebrows in a knowing smile. ''Yes, professionals know that. Keeping your courage for hour after hour of waiting, that is the hard part. Dancing on adrenaline for a minute or two. That is easy. That is what we humans have been doing since we first killed mastodons. But waiting for the beasty to wander down to the water hole. That is the hard part.''
Kris sat on the shady side of the room; it still smelted of smoke from its last training run. ''You have a family, Chief?''
''Wife, boy, girl,'' he said. ''If you'd let me run down to the booking room, I'd get my wallet. Pictures.'' He grinned.
''Nope, you're staying right beside me. And please don't make me shoot you by trying to escape.''
''Ever killed anyone?'' the chief asked. Ernie quit studying the sailors getting ready to march in and glanced at Kris.
''Does Greenfeld add Vs for Valor on campaign ribbons when they're earned in a fight?'' Kris asked.
''No,'' the chief paused. ''No, come to think of it, some of the recent, ah, antiterror campaigns have had Vs added to them for those who were involved in combat. Yes, there are those.''
''I don't notice any Vs in the salad on your chest.''
''Nope. I'm just a sailorman's sailor.''
''Have you checked my collection?''
The chief squinted down at Kris. Then sat down in the shade across from her, careful to stay away from the soot on the walls. ''Aren't you rather young to have all those. And that Devolution Service Medal. I was there, swilling beer. Nobody earned a V.''
''I guess it's a clerical error.''
''I've heard stories about how slipshod things are in the Longknife Navy,'' he said, but it was clear from the way he studied Kris now that something had changed in him. He was no longer dismissing her as a ''girl'' or a spoiled brat of the wealthy. ''What's that gold trinket?'' he said.
''Earth's Order of the Wounded Lion.''
He leaned back, lost in thought, not noticing that he was smudging the back of his coat. When he leaned forward, he eyed Kris hard. She gave him steel for steel. ''They give you that because you're the Longknife brat?''
''On Greenfeld, do they hand out a lot of fruit salad to Hank because he's Peterwald's brat?''
''And if they did?''
''That's Greenfeld. I earned mine.''
He leaned back again, seemed sunk in thought for a long, long time. Finally he roused himself and eyed Kris. ''You intent on slaughtering my sailors?''
''Not if I can help it.''
''Not like you did those sailors in the pirate battleships that attacked Wardhaven.''
There it was again. The canard. Kris let her anger show as she shot back. ''First, you're an experienced Senior Chief. You know as well as I do that Magnificent-class battleships don't pop out of empty space. They need bases to build them. They need bases to operate them. I haven't heard of any pirates big enough to operate more than one ship, and a tiny one at that. They get bigger, we come out and take them down hard. At least that's what we do in Longknife space.''
''That's what we do in Greenfeld space,'' the chief said with a frown. He was coming with her. Not happy about where this conversation was going, but he was too honorable a man not to see the truth when his nose was rubbed up against it.
''So where do six humongous battleships come from?'' Kris demanded. ''And after they've killed my best friends, don't you think I'd want to know the answer to that? Don't you?''
Slowly, the chief nodded. ''I would.''
''Well so did I. But every last sailor or officer was dead in his pod. Not a few of them, but all of them. Dead men tell no tales. You tell me who got the benefit of that silence.''
''The sailors are coming up to the berm,'' Ernie said.
Kris stood and refocused her glasses. ''Yep, there in the lead is your commodore. He must be sweating horribly in blues. Everyone else is in whites. Strange that?''
The chief came to stand beside Kris. ''He took a dress-for-success course once, or had a consultation, I don't know. Anyway, he says the camera will always focus on the person in the darker suit over those in lighter ones. He does love his blues.''
There was no military value in what the chief said, but it told Kris volumes about what the junior officers and senior NCOs thought in the privacy of their own whispered spaces.
Kris watched as the kids skateboarding on the berm waved at the parade coming up, then did one last rad ride down before taking off for points well out of firing range.
''Good marching,'' Kris said for the chief. ''Better than in most vids. At least everyone is in step. Well, most everyone. I think your commodore is out of step with the music.''
''No, ma'am. Everyone is out of step with him.''
Kris weighed that and found it interesting. Especially the ''ma'am'' part.
''What are you going to do with those Marines?'' Kris asked, studying the column.
''Is that question directed at me?'' Chief Meindl asked.
''No. I don't intend to ask you anything that will cause you trouble when you are returned to Greenfeld control.''
The chief frowned. ''And the ones in the jail?''
''Unless something goes horribly wrong, all should see Greenfeld again. Remember, I don't shoot prisoners.''
''Aren't you worried about a riot when they hear the band?''
Oh, now you have given me something. Was that intentional?
''I kind of expect one, Chief. There are sleepy grenades rigged on both floors. No one should be hurt, but they won't be causing us any trouble, and they won't be in any shape to pick up a rifle and join their liberators in mowing us down, either.''
The chief nodded.
Kris refocused the glasses. ''Yes, yes, he is doing something smart for a change.''
''May I ask what?'' the chief said.
''He's deploying his Marines as flankers, sending some of them up the berm to have a look and report back. Ernie, can I borrow your phone.'' Kris listened for a dial tone, then said, ''The forward scouts please.''
While she waited to be connected, she turned to Meindl. ''Chief, if you cause us any trouble now, I'll have to put you down hard. Should I return you to your cell, or can I have your word that you will not attempt to communicate with your forces?''