"But you never attained your destination?"
Rod nodded. After all, the Alfreda had left Fido with a remarkable number of famous people aboard, but had never been heard from again. That gave Rod scope for considerable poetic license. "We felt this huge lurch—horrible, I wound up with caviar all over my doublet—and the crew started hollering for all of us to get into suspended-animation pods, and aimed us at random, hoping we'd strike Terran-colonized planets sooner or later."
"Which, fortunately, you did." Shacklar pulled out a pipe and clasped it high on the stem, hiding his mouth; but the corners of his eyes crinkled.
"So here we are," Rod finished. "Our pod landed out in the Wolmen's territory, and… uh… you… don't… believe me…"
"No, I didn't say that at all." The General leaned forward to prop his elbows on his desk.
"But it's the best entertainment you've had all week?"
"All year, in fact." Shacklar smiled warmly. "They don't have tales like that on the 3DT any more."
"Well, if you doubt my word, you can check the records. The Alfreda did disappear en route from Beta Canis Minor to 61 Cygni…"
"Yes, I remember the incident well; there were so many politicians aboard that it was quite a scandal." Shacklar gave him an amiable smile. "That much, at least, is quite true, I'm certain. As to the rest of it, though… Ah, well, I'm not one to press, Master Gallowglass. We rather make a policy of not being too insistent about a man's past, on Wolmar. However, I do appreciate the finer aspects of narrative creativity. I was especially impressed with the piece about the costume ball."
"Oh, yes! She's supposed to be Nell Gwynn, and I'm, uh—Cyrano de Bergerac!"
"And I'm the King of England," Shacklar murmured, fighting a smile. "But as I say, a man's past is his own affair, on Wolmar. No one is here without a reason, and it's generally one that he'd rather weren't known." He shrugged. "Of course, in my own instance, I'm not terribly concerned about secrecy. Ultimately, I'm here because, in addition to being a psychiatrist, I'm also a masochist."
Rod stared, then caught himself. "Oh, really?"
"Yes." Shacklar smiled. "Quite well-adjusted—but it does create certain problems within the chain of command. Here, though, my men don't seem to care terribly."
Rod nodded, slowly. "I begin to understand why you don't mind staying."
"There is some feeling of being appreciated." Shacklar smiled brightly. "But the mild exhibitionism involved in telling you that is part of my disorder, you see. I certainly don't ask that of anyone else."
He leaned forward to glance at his desk readout. "However, I'm keeping you overlong; after so great a time in suspended animation, you must be ravenous. You'll find an excellent tavern just down the street."
"Uh… thanks, General." Rod managed a smile. "You've been very helpful."
He turned away to the door, holding it open for Gwen. "If there's anything we can ever do for you, just give us a yell."
"As a matter of fact, there Is one small thing your lady could do for me, Master Gallowglass."
Rod stopped in mid-stride, a sinking feeling in his belly.
He turned around again. Gwen turned with him, wide-eyed. "And how may I aid you, sir?"
"Slap me," said the General.
Rod set down a small tray, and laid a plate of boiled sausage and buns in front of Gwen, with a tankard of ale to flank it. "Not much, my dear, but I'm afraid that's about the best Cholly's Tavern runs to." He sat down and took a sip of his beer. His eyes widened in surprise. "Not bad, though."
She sipped, carefully. "Indeed, 'tis not! Yet wherefore is't so chill, my lord?"
"Huh?" Rod looked up, surprised. "Oh, uh—they just like it that way, honey. That's all." He leaned back and looked about him, at the unfinished boards and the rough-and-ready chairs and tables. "Sure not what I was planning on when I took you out for an evening alone."
Gwen smiled. "Nay, assuredly 'tis not! Yet—oh, my lord! Tis all so new, and marvelous!"
"It is?"
"Indeed." She leaned over the table. "Yet tell me—what mean all these strange manners and artifacts? Why do all wear leggings, even though they have no armor to cover them? What were those odd, bulbous engines each man did wear at his hip, upon the Wall? And wherefore do they not wear them in this place? How do the lights within this inn come to glow? And where are the kegs from which they draw their ale?"
Rod held up a hand. "Hold it, dear. One at a time." He hadn't realized how strange and new the technological world would seem to Gwen—but she did come from a medieval culture, after all. Secretly, he blessed the fate that had brought them to a frontier planet, instead of one of the overly-civilized, total-technology worlds nearer Terra.
How to explain it all to her? He took a deep breath, wondering where to start. "Let's begin with power."
"There's naught so new in that." She shrugged. "Once thou hadst told me there were no nobles, it was truly clear the peasant folk must needs set up orders within their own ranks, even as those Wolmen, who did chase us this morn, have done. Or the wild folk, who do war upon the cities— even as the Beastmen did to our Isle of Gramarye, ten years agone."
The time-lapse hit Rod like a Shockwave. "My lord! Was it really ten years ago?" He took a shuddering breath. "But of course. We only had one child then, and we have four now—and Magnus is twelve." He studied her face intently. "You don't look any older."
She blushed, lowering her eyes. "'Tis good of thee to say it, my lord—yet I do see the wrinkles, here and there, and the odd strand of gray in mine hair."
"What's odd about it, with our four? But they certainly must be rare; I haven't noticed one yet! And as to wrinkles, I've always had my share of those."
"Yet thou art not a woman," Gwen murmured.
"So sweet of you to notice… But back to the ins and outs of this world we're on. Government wasn't exactly the kind of 'power' I'd had in mind, dear."
"Indeed?" She looked up, surprised. "Yet assuredly thou didst not speak of magicks!"
"No, no. Definitely not. I was talking about force—the kind that makes things move."
Gwen frowned, not understanding.
Rod took a deep breath. "Look. In Gramarye, there are four kinds of power that can do work for us: muscles, our own or our animals'; wind, which pushes ships and turns windmills; water power, which turns mill wheels; and fire, which heats our houses, boils our water, and cooks our food. And that's about all."
Gwen frowned. "But what of the power of a crossbow, that speeds a bolt to slay a man?"
Rod shook his head. "Just muscle power, stored. When a crossbowman pulls a bowstring, see, he's just transferring power from his arm and shoulder into the springy wood of the bow. But the crossbowman takes several minutes to put that power in, by winding the bowstring back. Then, when he pulls the trigger that releases the string, all that energy is released in one quick burst—and that's what throws the arrow so much harder than an ordinary bow can."
Gwen nodded slowly, following every word. "And 'tis thus, too, that a common archer's bow can throw an arrow so much farther than a man-at-arms can hurl a spear?"
"Why, yes." Rod sat up straighter, surprised at how quickly she had understood. "Of course, the arrow's lighter than the spear, too. That helps."
Gwen frowned. "And 'tis also that the ends of the bow are longer than the spearman's arms, is't not? For I do note that the longer the bow, the farther it doth hurl the arrow."