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Authors: David Drake
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in proper clothes, won’t you? They’re right upstairs in the bathroom.”
Nan and Onander were already leading the way around the parked cars to the staircase in a corner. The outside door had pivoted shut unnoticed. That was the sort of effortless control to be expected in a room with smoothly-gleaming surfaces; but the stairs took Slade aback again. They were of dark wood, old enough to show wear in the gentle bowing of the treads. Each tread was pegged, not nailed or glued, to the stringers. The fit appeared flawless.
“Via, this is a fine piece of work,” Slade said aloud as he let his fingers brush the balustrade. He felt that he had to be as careful with it as he had been with his hostess, though the dense wood barely flexed beneath his foot. It struck him that the Elysians themselves might be less fragile than his nervousness seemed to be warning him.
Nan glanced back at the big man. “My mother’s mother built it,” she said. “To replace the extruded one. I’m told that it was almost six years before she called it finished—not that she was working on it full time.”
Nan paused at the stair head and rapped the balustrade. The sound had a life that masonry or synthetics would not have duplicated. “They were both, this and the plastic, utilitarian in that they permitted people to walk between the garage and the first floor,” the woman continued. “But this had a utility for my grandmother while she was working on it, too . . . and for us, to remember her every time a step sounds on the tread.”
As he mounted the last step himself, Slade glanced over his shoulder and smiled. Risa still waited at the foot of the stairs, watching the play of the castaway’s muscles. When his eyes caught hers, the girl blushed before she grinned back.
CHAPTER TEN
“The seat of honor, Mister Slade,” Onander said as he pointed to the chair at the center of the cross table. The chair to either side of the central one was empty also. Nan took the guest’s hand lightly to bring him forward, much as her daughter had led Slade to the car.
There were about thirty adults already sitting at the two side tables and at the seats to either end of the table that crossed them into a square-based U. They clapped lightly as the castaway entered the room. There were decanters and covered dishes on the tables, but the meal had waited for Slade’s arrival.
Slade’s tunic and shorts were red, as he had been warned. The garments were comfortably light in the warm evening, and they were loose enough to give him occasional twinges as he remembered his garb on landing. Other Elysians were wearing similar clothing, though mostly of printed cloth. There was no certain cut or style. One man was nude at least from the tabletop to his cap of iridescent feathers.
Nan sat in one of the flanking chairs. Onander pulled out the central one and gestured Slade into it. Before the Elysian himself sat down, however, he called, “Friends? Our guest would probably be better for a meal in him. Afterwards, we hope he’ll join us in the other room and tell us something about himself and the things he’s seen; but for now, let’s all eat in peace.”
There was another patter of hands beneath a rainbow of Elysian smiles.
The Slammers were normally fed with ration packs, standardized food. It might once have had a Dutch emphasis, but when reconstituted it tended to be as featureless as a hooker’s thirtieth trick of the night. The mercenary troops themselves came from worlds as varied as those on which a contract might station them. It was better to accept the cost and inconvenience of standardized rations than to lose thirty percent of your effectives to diarrhea or constipation every time you shifted planets.
Slade, however, had made a practice of eating on the local economy wherever possible. He hadn’t joined Hammer to be bored, and he’d always figured he pulled his weight even when he had the runs. The big man therefore appreciated the
Nan and Onander were already leading the way around the parked cars to the staircase in a corner. The outside door had pivoted shut unnoticed. That was the sort of effortless control to be expected in a room with smoothly-gleaming surfaces; but the stairs took Slade aback again. They were of dark wood, old enough to show wear in the gentle bowing of the treads. Each tread was pegged, not nailed or glued, to the stringers. The fit appeared flawless.
“Via, this is a fine piece of work,” Slade said aloud as he let his fingers brush the balustrade. He felt that he had to be as careful with it as he had been with his hostess, though the dense wood barely flexed beneath his foot. It struck him that the Elysians themselves might be less fragile than his nervousness seemed to be warning him.
Nan glanced back at the big man. “My mother’s mother built it,” she said. “To replace the extruded one. I’m told that it was almost six years before she called it finished—not that she was working on it full time.”
Nan paused at the stair head and rapped the balustrade. The sound had a life that masonry or synthetics would not have duplicated. “They were both, this and the plastic, utilitarian in that they permitted people to walk between the garage and the first floor,” the woman continued. “But this had a utility for my grandmother while she was working on it, too . . . and for us, to remember her every time a step sounds on the tread.”
As he mounted the last step himself, Slade glanced over his shoulder and smiled. Risa still waited at the foot of the stairs, watching the play of the castaway’s muscles. When his eyes caught hers, the girl blushed before she grinned back.
CHAPTER TEN
“The seat of honor, Mister Slade,” Onander said as he pointed to the chair at the center of the cross table. The chair to either side of the central one was empty also. Nan took the guest’s hand lightly to bring him forward, much as her daughter had led Slade to the car.
There were about thirty adults already sitting at the two side tables and at the seats to either end of the table that crossed them into a square-based U. They clapped lightly as the castaway entered the room. There were decanters and covered dishes on the tables, but the meal had waited for Slade’s arrival.
Slade’s tunic and shorts were red, as he had been warned. The garments were comfortably light in the warm evening, and they were loose enough to give him occasional twinges as he remembered his garb on landing. Other Elysians were wearing similar clothing, though mostly of printed cloth. There was no certain cut or style. One man was nude at least from the tabletop to his cap of iridescent feathers.
Nan sat in one of the flanking chairs. Onander pulled out the central one and gestured Slade into it. Before the Elysian himself sat down, however, he called, “Friends? Our guest would probably be better for a meal in him. Afterwards, we hope he’ll join us in the other room and tell us something about himself and the things he’s seen; but for now, let’s all eat in peace.”
There was another patter of hands beneath a rainbow of Elysian smiles.
The Slammers were normally fed with ration packs, standardized food. It might once have had a Dutch emphasis, but when reconstituted it tended to be as featureless as a hooker’s thirtieth trick of the night. The mercenary troops themselves came from worlds as varied as those on which a contract might station them. It was better to accept the cost and inconvenience of standardized rations than to lose thirty percent of your effectives to diarrhea or constipation every time you shifted planets.
Slade, however, had made a practice of eating on the local economy wherever possible. He hadn’t joined Hammer to be bored, and he’d always figured he pulled his weight even when he had the runs. The big man therefore appreciated the
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