Chack and Garrett were with him, as were the two other destroyermen.
They weren't carrying rifles, but they had sidearms and the ridiculous cutlasses. Bradford wasn't wearing one, even though they were as much his idea as Gray's. The one time he did, he'd somehow managed to cut himself without even drawing it completely from its scabbard. He wasn't wearing a pistol either, but only because he'd forgotten it when he changed his clothes. Captain Reddy wore his Academy sword. With many hoots and jubilant cries from the ship as well as the dock, the procession began to move and they marched down the gangway, into the teeming city.
The festivities were heard across the water, beyond Big Sal, where Walker rested at last. Spanky McFarlane wiped greasy hands on a rag tucked into his pocket. His sooty face was streaked with sweat. "Sounds like a hell of a party," he said, staring at the shore.
"Yup," said Silva, and he spat a stream of tobacco juice over the side.
Stites leaned on the rail by the number two gun, a cigarette between his lips. Spanky fished a battered pack out of his shirt pocket and shook one out. Silva handed him a Zippo. "Think we're gonna get fuel here?" he asked.
"Dunno. Hope so. We're down to seven thousand gallons, so we ain't looking for it anywhere else."
"Not without burning wood, I hear," Stites put in. Spanky glowered at him. "I reckon if anybody can squeeze oil out of the monkey-cats, the Skipper will. He's done okay."
"No arguments there," Silva grunted. "I just wish I knew what we're gonna have to do to get it—and what we're gonna do then."
Spanky looked at him curiously. "What difference would it make if you did?"
Silva grinned. "None, I guess." He walked to the rail and leaned on it beside Stites. "Might be fun to go ashore. Kick up my heels." His face darkened. "Ain't no women, though. That's gonna get tough, fast."
"All them other nurses gone on Mahan," Stites grumped, "and the only two dames in the whole wide world is officers. Where's the justice in that?"
"Maybe there're women somewhere," encouraged Spanky. "The Skipper thinks so. Those lizard ships were human enough, and the monkey-cats speak Latin, of all things. We can't be the only people who ever wound up here."
"Then we better find fuel quick so we can start lookin' for 'em," Stites muttered emphatically.
"Oh, I don't know," Silva reflected. "Some of them cat-monkey gals are kinda cute, if you don't mind that furry, European style."
Stites looked at him with wide eyes. "Shit, Dennis, you're one sick bastard!" After a moment, though, he scratched his cheek. "'Course, after a while, who knows?"
Spanky cleared his throat. He knew—well, suspected—the men were joking and that was fine. But the joke was barbed and reflected a very real concern. Best keep it a joke for now. "I wouldn't worry about it. Strikes me they have higher standards, and I doubt you'd measure up. A goat wouldn't be satisfied with a deck-ape."
Silva affected offense. "Now, sir, that's no way for an officer to talk.
Downright uncharitable. Keepin' all the goats to yourselves might dee-stroy the perfect harmony between the apes and snipes!"
Spanky laughed out loud. "I'll bear that in mind."
Of course, if the rumors he'd overheard about Silva trying to "murder" Laney were true, there was little harmony left to destroy. Officially, a rusted pin broke. With nobody, even Laney, saying otherwise, that's all there was to it. But tensions were high. So far, everyone was too busy working together to keep the ship afloat for things to get out of hand— except the "joke" on Laney. Spanky was sure that was all it was. Silva played rough and maybe Laney had it coming. He could be a real jerk. It was even kind of funny—since nobody died—and Laney sure wasn't as puffed up as usual. But once the ship was out of danger, they better find one of two things pretty quick: dames or a fight. If they ever added boredom to their fear and frustration, the "jokes" would stop being funny at all.
The procession wound through the heart of the open-air market that was the city of "Baalkpan." It was somehow reassuring that the name of the place was derived from the ancient charts the Lemurians considered sacred. If nothing else, it proved that whoever transcribed or inspired the Scrolls didn't speak Latin as a first language. Matt wasn't positive; his historical interests were focused elsewhere, but he was pretty sure the place-names in the region had been given or recorded by the Dutch within the last two or three hundred years. That also meant that whatever religious importance the Lemurians placed on the Scrolls was a relatively new addition to their dogma. Not its sole foundation. Other than that fleeting thought, however, at the moment he and his companions were far more interested in their surroundings.
They were again struck by the vivid colors all around. Nothing went unpainted, and the tapestries and awnings were remarkably fine. Printing technology was apparently unknown, because the delicate and elaborate designs decorating virtually everything they saw were woven right into the cloth. Accomplished as they were at weaving, however, the Lemurians wore very little—enough for the sake of modesty, but only just. Kilts were the norm, although some, like Adar—and Keje tonight—might don a cape as well. Other than kilts, clothing seemed to be worn only for occupational protection. Occasionally they saw someone dressed in armor of sorts, but even then it appeared more decorative than practical. Matt knew Keje's armor was real—even though it was carefully cleaned and polished, it was scarred with many dents and cuts that proved it wasn't just for show. The people of Baalkpan seemed happy and prosperous, if just a bit garish. But unlike Keje and the crew of Big Sal, they didn't look like fighters.
What they lacked in martial manner, they made up for with their enthusiastic greeting of Keje's people and the destroyermen. Matt saw plenty of naked curiosity, but no hostility at all. Little apparent surprise either, and it dawned on him suddenly that of course they'd known Walker was coming. They'd dawdled along with Big Sal for days after being seen, and word could have reached Balikpapan on the slowest fishing boat. There'd also been plenty of time for them to learn what happened with the Grik. Indeed, that seemed to have a lot to do with the enthusiastic greeting. They were "hailing the heroes home from the war."
They saw the battle as a great victory and were rejoicing.
"It's just amazing!" Sandra shouted in his ear, over the tumult. He nodded. Large feline eyes of all colors gazed intently at them from the crowd. Here and there, Lemurian children scampered on all fours, their tails in the air, dodging between the legs of their elders. Others openly suckled their mothers. Ahead, a smallish brontosaurus was hitched to a cart loaded with something pungent. It balked at a command from its driver, apparently startled by the commotion, and bellowed in protest.
The procession paused while the driver regained control of the beast and then continued on.
"Amazing!" shouted Courtney Bradford, suddenly just behind them, oblivious to protocol. "They use dinosaurs like oxen, or mules! I wouldn't have thought they were intelligent enough to domesticate! The dinosaurs, I mean."
"You'd be surprised," Matt replied. "I knew a guy who rode a Longhorn steer around like a horse, and a Longhorn can't be any smarter than a dinosaur."
"Indeed?"
They passed fishmongers hawking their wares who stopped to gawk at the procession. Mostly, they sold the familiar "flasher-fish" they'd all seen quite enough of, but Matt was surprised to see other types of fish as well. He'd almost imagined that the flasher-fish, vicious and prolific as they were, must have virtually wiped out every other species in the sea.