“You gonna check it out, Payson?” another called, and the first voice replied, “Nah, he wouldn’t let me,” in a voice of exaggerated disappointment. “He wants that little blonde to do it.”
“She can check my bellybutton any time she likes,” said a third.
“She’d be disappointed if she went any lower,” another contributed.
The reference to a “little blonde” was clear; the tags on her seabag had read, “Briggs, Evelyn B., Lt(j.g.), 210,” and she was the most-junior member of VFA-97. She was also easily the most attractive of the women.
While the officers were engaged in their byplay, Peters grabbed one of the stewards by the arm. “Food, now?” he asked in Grallt, waving his hand at the officers. The steward started to say, “No, second llor,” then looked around at the group and changed it to, “Half utle? Simple?”
“Good, good, go,” Peters told him, then turned to the humans. “Sirs, please—” he said, and waited for their attention. “Steward Peer says the regular meal’ll be provided as scheduled, but a simple snack can be available in the wardroom in about twenty minutes, sir,” he said to the officer (Everett?) who’d asked about food.
“All right,” the officer growled. “Where away is the wardroom, sailor?”
“O-1 level, sir, about the middle, outboard.”
“And where might the O-1 level be? Up? Down?”
“Next deck below us, sir.”
Commander Bolton had pushed his way to the middle of the group, and stood, glaring, arms folded. “All right, listen up, people,” he said. “Light lunch will be served in the wardroom, next deck down, in fifteen minutes. Don’t leave until you get your gear. You people who’ve got your gear, get cleaned up. The rest of you, clear this passageway, this is a ship, not a playground.” He shifted his glare to Peters. “Sailor, you get hopping on that working party. These people are to get their gear as soon as possible, you hear?”
“Aye, sir,” Peters responded promptly, then to the Grallt with him, “Come.”
Dee was leading four female officers up the stairway. “Great,” he said. “Dee, you got a minute? I need a favor.”
“I cannot delay long,” Dee said, frowning. “What do you need?”
He sighed. “Could you go to the wardroom and tell the stewards that the animals are gettin’ restless from lack of food? Have ‘em lay out somethin’ simple, snacks and that. I told Peer, but maybe I didn’t get the words right.”
Dee nodded. “I will go now.”
“I’m for that,” one of the humans said. “Oh-six-hundred was a long time ago.”
“Yeah, me, too,” another agreed. “My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”
“You’re in public, Doris,” the third chided. “You could at least try to think up something original.”
“Your ass,” said ‘Doris’ cheerfully. “You shouldn’t be in a hurry, you got plenty reserves.”
“Bullshit,” the third one returned. “Long as my ass fits in an airplane seat it suits me just fine, and everybody else can go to Hell.” She grinned and slapped a hip. “Feels a little slack. When did you say lunch was, sailor?”
Peters started to speak, but was forestalled by Dee’s return. “It is arranged,” she told Peters. “Peer understood you, and a simple meal will be ready quickly.”
“Great,” said Peters with feeling. “Now if you ladies’ll excuse me, I got a workin’ party to attend to.”
“Carry on, sailor,” said one of the women, and the two parties separated, clattering on the stairs in opposite directions. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that suit,” one of the women said as they headed up.
“Hey, your ass’ll still fit in the airplane,” said another.
“I was just regretting that I won’t have much to put in the top half.” That got a slightly bitter chuckle, and the whole group was laughing as they disappeared through their quarters hatch.
He met Todd coming up, arms laden with seabags and supervising a similarly laden Grallt. Peters advised him of the change in plans and headed below. Only three left. That was good. He’d lost one of his working party, and this had taken long enough already.
He’d been making assumptions, he discovered. Message delivered, Peer showed up as they were unloading 106, and bore a hand, if not cheerfully then with a will. The Grallt were all right, he was discovering. It was his own folk he wasn’t too sure about.
By the time Peters and Todd made it to the mess room it was two utle into the second ande, the place was nearly empty, and the waiters weren’t pleased to see them. When they tried to order they got a lot of negative headshakes, ending up with whatever was left over. That was fair, they supposed, but not real pleasant all the same.
All the officers had gotten cleaned up and had something to eat, and some had gone to bed. The rest were sitting around the wardroom, drinking genuine imported U.S. Navy artificial fruit punch, exchanging insults and fairy tales (Navy version, which begins, “Now this is no shit…”), and bitching about the lack of a coffee urn. They were supposed to head back down starting at 0700, in the middle of the fifth ande.
Neither Todd nor Peters envied Dee and Dreelig. When last seen they had been sitting on couches, listening to conversations without being included in them, and trying to ignore sidelong looks from the officers, none of whom had the balls to look at them directly or comment on their appearance.
“I’m beat,” said Todd, and drained his glass. The sweet-tart klisti was lots better than the Navy bug juice the officers had.
“Yeah, me, too.” Peters looked around at the empty mess room. “Reckon these folks want us gone pretty quick.”
“Can’t blame ‘em,” Todd pointed out. He stretched and yawned. “What say we do them a favor? I could use a shower and some rack time.”
“You called it first, but I’m right behind you for the shower,” Peters agreed. He smiled a little. “But I found out somethin’ a little while ago, and if you can wait for me to get cleaned up I’ll share it with you.”
Todd looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “OK, I’ll go along,” he said. “I won’t even nibble you about it.”
The bartender set down the glass he was polishing and looked them over, asking something in liquid Grallt. It had to be a variant of “What’ll it be, sailors?”
“Well, shit,” Peters commented. The last bartender on Earth who didn’t speak enough English to serve sailors had probably died around the turn of the century, and it had never occurred to him, or Todd, that there might be language problems.
Finally Peters shrugged and pointed. The bartender returned the shrug, filled glasses with amber liquid, and pushed them across the bar, saying a word as he did so. “Must be the word for beer,” Peters guessed. He passed one of the four-square bills to the tender, who shrugged again, opened a drawer, and handed back three coppery squares and one silvery one. “Two beers comes to half a whatever they are. I dunno if that’s cheap or expensive, but if the beer’s good I don’t give a damn.”
“If it’s beer,” Todd reminded him.
It was beer, or the Grallt equivalent. Whatever had been used instead of hops gave a dry, smoky flavor, a little like Scots whisky. They took their glasses over to a table and settled in, discussing their day in low tones.
That seemed to be the correct style for the bar, and after a few curious looks they were ignored. They drank in sips, enjoying the taste, conversing in fits and starts interspersed with silences. The tender was attentive when called on but didn’t make rounds, just stayed behind the bar, polishing glasses or sitting on a stool with his head bent, reading or possibly asleep.
They had just paid for their second round when Dreelig came in, spotted them, and came over, smiling. “Have a seat,” Peters offered. “We’re buyin’.”