“We’ve not seen much of you of late,” was Mannix’s comment as the exercise session broke up.
Peters flushed. “Yeah. I been almighty busy, but I reckon that ain’t much excuse.”
Mannix flashed a smile. “We’ll let you off with a mere keelhauling this time, won’t we, Greg?”
Tollison grinned and murmured assent, eyeing Ander and Alper as they came up, and the slight First Class spared the girls a glance as he continued, “The most remarkable rumors about your exploits are circulating. One might be tempted to describe them as ‘incredible’ were it not for the fact that you seem to have brought back some rather extraordinary souvenirs of the experience. I must confess myself vastly interested in any little anecdotes you might care to recount, strictly as a matter of artistic appreciation, of course. You do tell such good stories.”
It would have been impossible for Peters not to grin in response. “This ain’t the place to be tellin’ stories. What schedule are you folks on now?”
“We’re still on a five-ande cycle. It’s about middle of the first ande.”
“Same for me… tell you what: why don’t you and Greg show up for dinner in my new quarters, end of third ande? We can have a few beers and catch up with one another.”
“I do believe you may count upon us to attend.”
The occasion was a success, marred only by the girls’ inability to keep up with the conversation. Peters was a good storyteller but not a mesmerizing one, and his account came in fits and episodes, interrupted by questions and observations from the other two. They shot the bull and laughed far into their sleep period, and consumed a fair amount of the cool clear pilsner-analog served aboard Llapaaloapalla, and the two sailors left, walking a little unsteadily, when De’el and his crew were coming down the corridors with carts and baskets for the next meal.
“You didn’t offer us to your friends,” Alper noted as they were getting ready for sleep. “I suppose we’re too old to be considered attractive.”
Peters regarded her owlishly. “That ain’t the way it works,” he growled, and the blonde girl flinched away from his tone rather than his words. “My apologies,” he said more quietly. “If you wish to consort with another it is your place to make the arrangements. I have no authority in the matter.”
“I think I understand the customs,” Ander interjected. “Go to bed, John. Alper and I should discuss this among ourselves.”
“Yes,” said Peters, and wobbled off to his quarters.
Dinner at Peters’s place became a regular feature. Mannix and Tollison came most often, but most of the hundred or so sailors Peters and Todd had had contact with showed up at least once or twice, including all the Chiefs but Joshua. At Warnocki’s suggestion Peters posted a sign outside his quarters door:
This is a civilian establishment
First or friend-names only
Rank will not be used or recognized
Ander and Alper joined in the discussions, first tentatively, then, as they learned more English, with enthusiasm. Peters had declined to teach them, citing his experiment with Gell; they spent several tle with Znereda each llor, and with that and the practice over meals gained fluency rapidly. The question of their being assigned for the pleasure of visitors wasn’t raised again.
A few Grallt dropped by from time to time: Prethuvenigis, of course, and Deela, both of whom spoke English well, and Khurs and Dzheenis, who were learning in the same way Ander and Alper were. Heelinig and Dhuvenig came, by special invitation; they couldn’t follow the conversations, and Dhuvenig used the time to renew his acquaintance with Deela. The surprise was Peet, now called Peetir, which she thought was funny bordering on hilarious. She brought her new mate, a zerkre called Gerig, and showed surprising ability in English. “Been learning electricity from sailors,” she said carefully. “I say ‘thank you’ for advice you gave. Worked OK.” Her figure was swelling, so something was working.
Peters copied the sign by his door in the Trade, and added a line:
Tonight we will speak
with a movable strip underneath that could be changed to read either “English” or “Trade”. He changed it in regular alternation, and the humans who came on Trade-speaking nights began gaining fluency by leaps and bounds.
At first all the humans who attended were enlisted, but at Warnocki’s suggestion he sent a written note via Deela inviting the officers as well, signing it “John Peters” with no indication of rank. Not many showed up, and it was a little surprising which ones did. Goetz and Williams came as a pair, and were cordial, friendly, and easy to get along with; the women of VFA-97 came in small groups, but neither of the commanders accepted the invitation, and of the men only Goetz, Dr. Steward, and a lieutenant called Jerry Wills, who was trying to learn Trade, stopped by.
Steward was a puzzle. He had introduced himself as “Jack,” answered to that at table, and was an excellent dinner companion, cheerful and witty. He came regularly at Trade-speaking meals and was making excellent progress. Peters had first met him at airsuit fitting, and thought him a self-important ass; he had no idea what the doctor would have testified about the nekrit matter at a court. He’d never had occasion to visit the infirmary, but those who had thought it well run.
At one meal Peters, having drunk a little more than he should have, decided to recite a poem he’d enjoyed from one of the books he’d read. The Trade lended itself well to alliteration, and the poem was not only a tongue-twister, it was funny. It was a success: the ones who understood it laughed ‘til tears came. Afterward Steward had come up to him and asked, “John, do you think the ladies would like for me to examine them? Pregnancies can have complications.” He’d looked wistful. “You know, when I volunteered for this I imagined myself curing aliens and learning strange biochemistry. OB/GYN work at least has happier endings than autopsies and patching up broke sailors.”
It reminded Peters of Todd. He suggested it to the girls, who could make their own arrangements; shortly Steward was around every few days, not just at meals. He reported all was well, and talked Khurs into a physical that puzzled the Hell out of her. Peters shook his head. He still had a funny feeling about this.
To Peters’s astonishment, bordering on shock, he found himself the fourth wealthiest individual aboard Llapaaloapalla, although the bulk of his assets were tied up in the ferassi smallship. If Todd’s estate—which was by no means contemptible: some cash, a block of shares, and a half-interest in a smallship zifthkakik—was considered, Peters was third by a whisker. Dzheenis spent three llor poking around in the Trade offices and came away indignant. “Do you have any idea what they’ve been charging you for management?” he demanded.
Peters was bemused. “No. I never thought to inquire.”
“Ssth. Let me put it this way: you can pay the rent on this space, give me and Khurs a nice raise, and still be under two-thirds of what they’ve been taking out. It’s disgraceful.” The big Grallt eyed his de’pa’olze sidelong.
“Ssth. Allowances must be paid in cash, and we don’t have much cash income. Instead of a raise I’ll grant you each a quarter square of trade shares.”
Dzheenis grinned. “I consider that a totally acceptable compromise.”
Further digging in the archives uncovered another surprise. Peters, it appeared, owned not one spacecraft but two. “Well, you have a half-interest,” Dzheenis explained. “The other half belongs to your deceased comrade.”