Vodi's monkey was enjoying the harangue immensely, reinforcing key comments with the occasional "Eek!" as it kept a careful watch in all directions. Periodically the creature would whip an arm out with blinding speed to snag an olive from a passing martini or an hors d'oeuvre from a tray or a hand.
With the exception of the "performing artist" the artsy folks were all dressed in black. (Which Vodi claimed was really about personal cleanliness, or lack thereof.) They had been happily grazing along, maintaining serious expressions no matter what kind of drivel they were viewing in the name of "art." Now someone was calling their bluff, and one of the sheep bleated in response, "Well, you just don't get it."
Vodi was beginning to wind down, but this last remark ran fingernails down the blackboard of her soul. "And that violates the Second Law of Art, Elantu's Law," she replied with renewed vigor, cutting off the recalcitrant sheep and herding it back into the flock, "which says, 'If the artist has to explain what it means, then it's not art.' It's not art, it's a failure. Instead of universal symbolism or universal language, it's gibberish. Or a con job!"
It occurred to Melville that it was a good thing Broadax or Ulrich weren't there. They would have been demonstrating the fine art of high-pressure, arterial blood splatters on the walls. Hmmm, thought Melville, distractedly. It wouldn't be high-pressure blood spatters as I don't think they would be in full vasoconstriction. Oh, wait, after the first victim—I mean, "artistic endeavor"—the rest would be in full fight-or-flight mode. Well, flight anyway. Thus resulting in the proper arterial paintbrush for their preferred canvas. At least until the police showed up to put an end to Broadax and Ulrich's brief but dramatic careers as artists and art critics.
Melville grabbed a fresh drink from a passing server. Then he cut in and took Mrs. Vodi gently by the arm, guiding her down onto yet another of the levitating platforms with a laugh as he placed the drink in her hand. "You better take this," he said. "You've got to be working up a thirst."
"Ha! I was just getting started. But now that you mention it..." and the rest was drowned out with a series of deep refreshing gulps concluded by the loud, satisfied sigh of a dog who had just given the sheep what-for, or a person who had just struck a blow for rational thought. This was joined by a happy "Eek!" from her monkey as it reached out to sip from the same drink.
They were ambling along peacefully, happily strolling up, down and around, going from one platform to another, when suddenly it became Melville's turn to strike out at the insanity of a depraved and decadent society. He was trying to stay out of trouble. He was honestly trying to be a good guest, but then one of the black-clad art-eests who had been spouting tepid free verse in a corner had to go and ask him about poetry.
"Ah! The famous Captain Melville!" said a black-clad poet of indeterminate gender, whose unnaturally black skin glistened with ever-changing sparks and flashes of color. "I understand that you have a flair for poetry. Tell me honestly now, what did you think of my new work? I saw you listening as I was reciting that last bit."
"Well," Melville replied, "There were only three small things wrong."
"Oh," said the crestfallen poet. "What would that be?" s/he asked as the others listened in.
"First, you read it. Which can be excused, but perhaps not when it comes to something you wrote. If the artist won't bother to commit it to memory it must not be worth much. Second, you read it poorly. And third, it wasn't much worth reading in the first place. If you think that's poetry, you're just fooling yourself. One late twentieth century poet put it this way:
"True poetry to me has meant
Possessing the ability
To use some brilliant words to make
Another person clearly see
"A vivid mental picture and to
Make an easy, natural rhyme,
As if the words were idly used
In idle talk some idle time.
"It may be my opinion,
But it's why we know Lenore,
And Free Verse won't last as long
As the Raven's, 'Nevermore.'"
"Eek!" added Melville's monkey in its own pithy conclusion.
Mrs. Vodi chortled gleefully as the would-be poet's space-black face took on a flush of fiery tracings. S/he tried to drink from his (her?) empty glass, while the cloud of black-clad onlookers all looked down their noses and tut-tutted. Melville realized that Fielder was standing behind him, looking impeccable in his best, hand-tailored uniform. The first officer was framed by a pair of stunning blonds who had an unnatural number of teeth between them. They were both stroking Fielder's monkey, and the little critter seemed to be delighted by the attention. Playing to his two lady friends, Fielder drawled, "It's a good thing that no duels are permitted on Earth. Otherwise, I'm afraid we'd have to kill an awful lot of these people."
Melville was amazed that Fielder's brass balls weren't setting off every metal detector on Earth, not to mention his lady friends' BS detectors. But his two companions were obviously impressed and captivated by this bloodthirsty comment. Both of them blushed deeply across their abundant décolletage and Melville stared in fascination as twin flushes ran up their perfect white necks like a Guldur horde burning everything in its path. One of the blonds whispered something in Fielder's ear. Whatever she said must have been singularly stimulating, because it made him flush and breathe deeply. "Wonderful party, Captain, but I think we'll be on our way now," he said as he departed hastily.
"Well!" said Vodi, "I haven't had so much fun since the hogs ate my little brother!"
Melville wasn't exactly sure what to make of that, so he nodded and the two of them continued to wander, each finding comfort in the company of a fellow pilgrim in this very strange land. They quickly left the realm of art-eests, as signified by the absence of black attire, and entered a region of gaudy, brilliant, and often quite risqué garments.
Then they saw someone dressed in the uniform of a Westerness naval officer and started to head toward him, moving up and down across the levitating platforms, like swimmers striking out for an island in an ever-shifting sea of the unfamiliar and insane. The Westerness officer had his back to them, and Melville was set to say hello as he moved in beside the man. But he quickly came to a confused halt as he realized that it wasn't a man and there was something very wrong about the uniform.
"It's the Melville Look," she said, turning toward him with a satisfied smirk and a wink to her stable of fawning admirers. "All Earth is abuzz about your capturing that Fang thingee, and this is going to be all the rage, dahh-ling."
This clearly called for some witty, cutting repartee on Melville's part.
"Huh?" he said.
Vodi was in shocked amazement at the situation but at least she was able to generate an intelligent response. "Well damnit, Josiah's dog helped capture the Ship. So shouldn't you all be wearing dog collars and sniffing each other's bottoms?"
"No, no, no, my pet," the fashion-eesta replied, as delicate patterns of navy blue and gold danced and flickered across her face. "That is so last year. The whole canine dominance thing's been done to death, deary. It's not due to come around again for at least a few more years. But this is a caftan of a completely different color.
"Although," she continued, her face rippling and shivering with pinks and reds as she spoke, "I must say that everyone did like those dog collars, leashes, and naked partners going about on all fours. The roller blades surgically implanted into hands and knees is what really made it work last time, along with that wonderful 'In Heat' drug. And all that yummy anatomy hanging down certainly opened up a whole new range of body paint and bustier options. What a lark it was!"
"I do not want to hear about it," said Vodi.
"Well, I do admit it was a little hard on all the boys and girls who overdid the organ enhancement fad that was popular just before that. Anyway, you should be honored. But you know, Captain, your jacket is really not quite the style, and those shoes are completely passé.
"Now hang on just
a minute!" said Vodi in outrage. "How can you say the captain doesn't have the Melville look? He is Melville! Who the hell made you the fashion police?"
"Well, darling," she replied, haughtily scanning Vodi's simple black shift and her gray hair pinned up in a bun. "The whole fashion SWAT team couldn't save you, deary."
"Oh, honey," said Vodi, cocking back her arm with a saccharine smile that has terrified a veritable host of patients across the years, "I'm gonna slap you so hard that by the time you stop rolling, your clothes will be out of style."
Melville still had not said a word. He was floating along in a state of total, shell-shocked bemusement when Brother Theo came up and interrupted Mrs. Vodi's righteous wrath.
"Ohhh. Now that has potential," cooed the fashion-eesta, looking at Theo and apparently oblivious to how close she was to a painful life lesson from Mrs. Vodi. "Rope belts and rough brown cloth, ooo, I can just see it catching on! And I really like the haircut," she added, her face taking on rope-like patterns of brown and tan as she looked at Theo's tonsure. "That basic concept can be applied elsewhere on the body too, darling. Yass, I think I know what's coming after the Melville look. But you know, the little rat on everyone's shoulder really doesn't work. The whole furry mascot bit has been done to death."
"Eep?!" replied all three monkeys in outraged chorus.
"Excuse us please, madam," said Theo, taking Melville and Vodi aside. "I must confer with the captain." As they walked away the monkeys' arms reached out in all directions in a blur of movement, and a veritable hail of olives, glasses, and hors d'oeuvres flew back at the fashion-eesta with uncanny accuracy.
Theo guided Melville into a dimly lit alcove and Vodi happily followed, sensing some useful gossip about the "real" world.
"I've negotiated with the Earthport chapterhouse of the Celebrimbor Shipwrights guild, Captain. Just as we anticipated, they were eager to acquire two of the 24-pounders. They came and took possession of the guns today." Melville nodded. The Dwarrowdelf had taken two, and now the Westerness Shipwrights had taken two more. All of these were taken from Gnasher and Biter, leaving them with exactly the same strength as the Fang.
Once again Melville felt the urge to claim some 24-pounders from Gnasher and Biter to fill the gaps in his Ship. This was his last chance to do so, and he was sorely tempted. But much as he yearned to have those guns, much as he lusted to fill those gaps in his "teeth," he just couldn't bring himself to strip Archer and Crater's Ships. He would have to be content with an equal distribution of 24-pounders between the three Ships. Besides, he did have all those lovely little 12-pounders to fill in the gaps. That was something that Archer and Crater did not have, nor could they spare the ruinous expense for them. (Since, after Piers and Keels, cannons were some of the most precious commodities in the galaxy, mostly because they were driven by a big Keel charge.) Nor could Melville bring himself to share any of his 12-pounders with them. His largess just didn't extend quite that far!
"So did we get what we wanted for the 24-pounders?" asked Melville. He had no problem with Mrs. Vodi listening in. He trusted her discretion.
"Aye, sir," Theo replied with obvious pleasure. "This has been a very successful port call for us. We received an excellent price on the three Shiploads of trade goods we brought from Nordheim and Osgil. And the Shipwrights' guild paid us most handsomely for the two 24-pounders." The purser smiled and there was a brief pause as he allowed himself the indulgence of a major gloat. A gloat which Melville and Vodi fully shared. Above all else they were traders, and there was a deep sense of satisfaction that came with making a profitable port call.
"The Celebri also agreed to support us in our dispute with the Admiralty," said Theo, "and they have pledged some future, undefined 'favor'... which causes me a degree of foreboding. Those are very strange people, Captain, and I'm not sure I want them doing us too many 'favors.' Anyway, I apologize for interrupting you with all this—"
"Huh," interjected Vodi, "rescued is more like it."
"—but," Theo continued, "I have received word that you will be summoned to see the admiral tomorrow, and I wanted you to know about this before then."
Lt. Fielder joined them as Theo concluded his report and left with a polite nod of his head. The first officer looked considerably more disheveled than the last time they had seen him. He had lost some of his sartorial splendor, but he appeared to be quite pleased with himself and his lot in the world. Fielder was accompanied by a gorgeous redhead dressed in a conservative white suit.
Where does he get such a steady supply of stunners? thought Melville.
"Sorry to bother you, sir," said Fielder, "but this young lady asked me to escort her to you. She says she represents a pro-war faction in the Admiralty. They want to crank up the fleet's Reserve/Retired Enhanced Manning Force and do other war prep, but frankly their cause looks hopeless."
Things were moving entirely too fast for Melville. He needed time to think. He desperately wanted the world to just slow down a bit. Mostly, he yearned to get aboard his Ship and sail far, far away from this madhouse.
"The 'Reserve/Retired Enhanced Manning Force?'" asked Melville. "Do they really call it that?"
"Yes, Captain," said the redhead in a husky voice. "Otherwise known as the R/REMF."
"Careful, sir," said Fielder. "This is a high-tech world and this could be a setup." Looking at her suspiciously he continued, "You might be wired for sound. There's only one way to find out, and you probably won't enjoy it."
"How do you know I wouldn't?" she purred.
"Oh. She looks like a real hard case, sir. Just give me ten minutes alone with her and I'll get at the truth."
"Mmmm. Seek, and you shall find," she said, licking her lips, "and the truth shall set you free."
"I think this is a matter that can be left in my first officer's capable hands," said Melville. "I'm going to my Ship."
As he stepped out of the alcove with Mrs. Vodi, Melville commented, "You know, they are all flakes. Take those actors over there, or the news commentators who've been interviewing me and whose only skill is looking good and reading a prompter. They're just hollow shells. The character or reporter we think we love is not the person. What we see is nothing more than words and ideas poured into his hollow soul by a writer. And the art-eests and fashion-fascists we met, with rare exceptions they're all just faking it and deep inside they know it. I honestly think authors are the only celebrities who are truly worthy of admiration. You can't fake writing a book, especially a successful book: there are no real shortcuts, and you pretty much have to do it on your own.
"Hilaire Belloc wrote about The Barbarian," Melville continued thoughtfully as he scanned the crowd. "For him a 'Barbarian' is a man who 'will consume what civilization has slowly produced after generations of selection and effort, but he will not be at pains to replace such goods, nor indeed has he any comprehension of the virtue that has brought them into being.' I think that is why we rightfully revere authors. Their work has given us countless thousands of hours of pleasure. We do not want to be barbarians, so we are sincerely at pains to make a contribution of our own. If we can't do that, the least we can do is to comprehend the hard work and other virtues that brought these books into being, and to appropriately honor and appreciate the author."
"You have a valid point, Captain," replied Vodi. "Writers are definitely worthy of our esteem, if any celebrity is. But with all due respect I'd bring to your attention Exhibit A for the opposing view."
Melville looked where she was pointing and saw little Asquith pestering his agent to get out of his contract, while his agent diligently plied the publisher for a bigger advance.
"Well, maybe not all writers," agreed Melville with a rueful laugh. "But at least there's the military. There is a realm of decisive men of action. There is a place where you can find true giants who stride the galaxy and are worthy of admiration."
Groans and thuds came from the dark corner of the alcove where they had left Fielder and his girlfriend, and
Vodi cocked her head with a thin smile and said, "Once again you have an excellent point. Our military does have its 'giants' who are worthy of honor and glory. But do you include moral giants like Fielder?" And on cue the redhead began a gasping scream, or at least Melville assumed it was the redhead.
"Or," continued Mrs. Vodi, "were you referring to intellectual giants like Broadax and Ulrich? Or maybe you mean those great mental and moral giants of the Admiralty?"
"Huh," said Melville.
"O wad some Power the giftie gie us,
To see oursels as ithers see us!"
"Indeed, Captain," replied Mrs. Vodi.
"I guess we all have feet of clay," said Melville. "We're all just people trying to get by. Who the hell am I to judge? I'm going to my Ship."
"Eep!" agreed his monkey.
The next morning Melville received a letter summoning him to the admiral's office. McAndrews and his monkey fussed over the captain's uniform, and then it was only a short walk down the dock and into the Admiralty headquarters.
Melville had left his monkey behind but at least he was able to carry his sword. He entered the vast puzzle palace and was led through a maze of corridors and offices which were walled, floored, and roofed with glowing white Nimbrell wood. The walls were peppered with tasteful paintings, and prints accumulated over the centuries.
The Guns of Two-Space Page 23