Cholly set a couple of foaming mugs in front of them, and Rod turned his attention back to the important things in life. He took a long drink, then exhaled with satisfaction. "So! What's the news?"
All of the patrons suddenly became very concerned with their beer and ale.
"Oh," Cholly said affably, "nothing terribly much. The word from the Wall is that the Wolmen're beginning to drift up and pitch camp, just out of blaster range…There're twenty or thirty people out howling fer yer blood… The gin'ral's sent the captains out't' remind people where their battle stations are…"
Rod nodded. "Slow night, huh?"
"Humdrum," Cholly agreed. "I gets rumors all the time."
"Yeah, about those rumors…" Rod cocked a forefinger. "Hear anything about Shacklar?"
Cholly looked up, startled. "The gin'ral? What about 'im?"
Rod shrugged. "He seems to be taking the whole thing very calmly, if you ask me."
"We didn't," a young soldier reminded him.
Rod shrugged again. "Whatever. Is he always so coldblooded about crises?"
"Gin'rally, yes," Cholly said slowly. "I've known him to get excited when he can't find his cat-o'-nine-tails, but nothing else seems to fash him much."
"Cat-o'-nine-tails?" Rod frowned. "I thought you said he outlawed that."
"He did." Cholly fixed him with a level gaze. "But who's to arrest the General-Governor, hey? Quis ipsos custodies custodial, young man."
'"Who will police the police,' huh?" Rod nodded. "A point."
"He never does anything to anybody else, without a good reason," Cholly supplied helpfully.
"'To anybody else,'" Rod repeated. "Well, I can accept that."
"Yer don't have much choice," a fiftyish ranker snarled.
"He's always fair," Cholly reminded.
"More'n fair," the ranker growled.
"And what he does is always for the greatest good of almost everybody, as Jeremy Bentham used to say."
Rod didn't like the sound of that "almost."
"I thought Bentham's line was, 'the greatest good of the greatest number.'"
"Well, that's almost everybody, ain't it?"
"Better than Bentham hoped for, probably," Rod admitted, "but nothing to lose his head over."
As long as there's progress," Cholly sighed.
"That there is," rumbled the grizzled veteran, "with the General. Every year he makes life a little better for everybody."
"Except the Wolmen?"
"The Wolmen, too!" The young soldier looked up in surprise. "I mean, would you believe it? He's actually trying to ease us soldiers into getting along with those savages! Permanently!"
"Why don't I have trouble believing that?" Rod wondered.
"Always a skeptic," Cholly sighed.
Rod turned back to him. "I'll bet this little murder will set his plans back a ways."
Cholly's eyes suddenly clicked into "wariness" mode.
The young soldier said stoutly, "Don't you believe it!" and the grizzled veteran agreed, "He'll find a way to make this work out for the best of all of us."
"Colonists and Wolmen?" Rod said, with a lift of one eyebrow.
"Don't you doubt it!" the older man commanded.
"Oh, I don't," Rod said softly, "not one bit."
"Well." The young soldier looked up in surprise. "You're won, then?"
"Totally convinced," Rod confirmed.
The grizzled veteran still glared at him with suspicion, and Cholly just rolled his eyes up, but the young soldier grinned happily. "Well! That's done, then." He set both palms against the edge of the bar and, with a manful push, slid off his bar stool. "For my part, if I don't hit my bunk within the quarter hour, I won't make my sentry duty in the morning. Of course, I'll have a nice, snug berth in the stockade waiting for me."
"Morning?" Rod pricked up his ears. "How early? I mean, it's only…" He glanced at the clock over the bar. "… twenty-five hundred… .Huh?"
The young soldier grinned wickedly at Cholly, jerking his head toward Rod. "He is new here, isn't he?"
The young always so enjoyed being able to feel superior.
"There're twenty-six hours in a Wolmar day, chum," he advised Rod. "If I get to bed by twenty-five hundred, I'll have plenty of time for my six hours, and still make my five o'clock sentry-go."
Rod shuddered appropriately. "Horrible hours. Say, uh… you didn't happen to notice anybody going outside the Wall yesterday morning, did you?"
The young man shook his head, not quite noticing Cholly's frantic signals. "Nobody, except for Sergeant Thaler." He lifted his mug in a toast. "Your health, Cholly."
"Yours, Spar," the bartender sighed.
Spar downed the rest of his beer and turned away to the door, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He waved, and drifted on out.
Rod turned back to Cholly. "That's strange. Thaler isn't one of your traders, is he?"
Cholly opened his mouth, but the grizzled corporal was a phoneme ahead. "No. Not that it matters—they usually come in around midday, anyway."
"Oh," Rod said, with total innocence, "they do?"
"Thaler's a valuable noncom," Cholly warned. "Shacklar trusts him down to his boot tops."
"Yes," Rod said softly, "that's what worries me."
"Milord." Gwen laid a hand on his arm. "I bethink me thou hast had ale enow, for this night."
"Hm?" Rod looked up in surprise. He caught the meaning in her gaze, and said, "Oh!" He turned his attention to what was going on outside the tavern for a minute, and heard disgruntled, frustrated, thirsty thoughts—the lynch mob, coming back. "Uh, yeah! Probably. We should be going." He chugged the rest of the mug, set it down. "Put it on my tab, will you?" Then he slipped off the stool, offered Gwen his arm, and turned to stroll out the door. "Thanks for everything," he called back.
Cholly raised a hand in farewell. "Keep the faith."
Rod wondered which one, but decided not to ask. As soon as they were out the door, they leaped to the side, ran around to the back. They crouched down by the window with the bulk of the building between them and the returning lynch mob, ears and minds wide open, listening. Rod had one eye above the windowsill. After a moment, Gwen joined him.
The mob streamed in, breaking up into individual soldiers who began to think as people again. "Ar, what a waste of good drinking time!"
"I've had more luck chasing extinct species!"
"Reminds me of the last time I went fishing…"
"Blinkin' witches, that's what they are!" growled a portly private, bellying up to the bar.
"Witches!" Sergeant Thaler sneered. "Nay, ain't nothin' but the natural in this!" He turned to glare at Yorick. "Natural fowl, that is! Led us a merry chase after the wild goose, didn't you?"
"Who, me?" Yorick shook his head violently, all offended innocence."You've got the wrong bird, Sergeant."
"Have I really, now?" Thaler purred, sliding off his bar stool and taking a step toward Yorick.
The Neanderthal laid a hand over his heart. "Never chased a wild goose in my life. Just wait till they fly by, usually. Not bad, with a little orange sauce and a side of peas…"
"No more of yer lip!" Thaler snarled. "Y' won't turn us aside with yer jestin' this time!" He wrapped a hand in Yorick's jacket, and jerked his head close. "You're in cahoots with 'em, ain'cha?"
The nearest soldiers looked up, startled. Then they scowled, and an ugly murmur began.
"I saw him in here with 'em this afternoon," a private called.
"Aye, and right chummy he was!"
Thaler slid a knife out of his boot and rested the point against Yorick's belly. "I shave with this, so mind you tell the truth. You're in it with 'em, ain'cha? Up to yer eyebrows. And all you're angling for, is helping them escape."
"Whup! Whoa! Hold it, here!" Yorick waved a hand. "Fair trial! Let's be fair about this!"