Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

PASTURE BEDTIME Michael slept between two Fanghorns, while another orbited him, restless, watchful. Michael slept as do the young: mindless of the hard ground, uncaring of the thin pad between his sleeping bag and his father’s grassy pasture: neither Thunder nor Cyclone slept – they were picking up on Michael’s dream-state, and though neither made a sound, each cuddled in closer on either side of the sleeping bag. Lightning was not so discreet. She stopped periodically, shook her head, rumbled deep in her chest, predatory fangs gleaming in moonlight: when a solitary figure opened a gate and slipped through, she was instantly on alert, ready to charge, to guard, until the wind carried a familiar scent. Michael’s eyes rolled beneath closed lids; his breath came more quickly as his deepest mind processed the day: his eyes snapped open, he took a quick, gasping breath, sat up suddenly, throwing the unzipped sleeping bag open. Thunder and Cyclone’s heads were up, their ears perked: Michael heard their greeting-chirp, saw a silhouette: he blinked his eyes, his hand dropping to his rifle, then releasing. Michael’s father squatted at the foot of the sleeping bag. Michael heard the plastic sound of a cup being unscrewed from a thermos – he heard something gurgle – steam rose from something, still hot, and the barely moving breeze carried the scent of hot chocolate. “I thought you might be restless,” Linn said quietly as Lightning hung her big head over his shoulder, curious nostrils working at the smell. Michael sat, cross-legged, bent well forward, accepted the cup: he took a careful sip, savoring the rich flavor, sipped again. “How’d you know, sir?” he asked quietly, for the night pressed down round about them, stars bright overhead, horses holding well back from the Fanghorns, almost invisible in the dark. Linn did not answer. He didn’t have to. Michael rarely rode Lightning on Earth. Michael even more rarely rode Lightning outside the protective screening fields that surrounded his father’s ranch. He’d tossed caution to the winds, he’d ridden a distance away, until he saw something just a nickel’s worth out of the ordinary. Michael heard the freight in the distance – the main line ran through here, some miles from Firelands – he honestly preferred the sound of The Lady Esther and steam whistles to Diesel power and air horns, but nobody bothered to consult him on how to run their railroads, and besides, it had been that way since his earliest memory. What was not ordinary was the vehicle, pulled parallel to the coarse gravel ballast beside the grade crossing. It was bright afternoon, the air was still and clear, Michael could see the distance without difficulty. Lightning picked up on his increasing unease: she muttered, turned toward the figure as it did something at the open door of its car. Lightning’s ears both swung back at Michael’s quiet, “Oh, no, no, no!” – he leaned forward and Lightning responded with a will – she surged forward, driving into her sudden, predatory gallop – The train was close, now, too close – Michael stood up in the stirrups, his hands flat against Lightning’s broad, hard-muscled neck, he heard someone screaming “DON’T DO IT, DON’T DO IT, DON’T DO IT!” – it wasn’t until he took a quick breath that he realized it was his voice screaming. Michael’s eyes were wide, unblinking, he shoved his face into the wind, tears stripped out the corners of his eyes by the wind of their passing – The man stood in the middle of the tracks, raised both arms, palms open to the Heavens above. Michael heard his defiant scream, just before the freight hit him, just before his eternal soul was honestly blasted out of his body by the impact of a Diesel locomotive running better than seventy miles an hour and backed by a mile of freight behind. Lightning threw herself sideways, skidding, dancing, fighting: she shook her head, her own steam-whistle anger a discordant counterpoint to air brakes and air horns. Michael held the plastic cup of hot chocolate, stared at the dark blue sleeping bag: he sat cross legged on insulation and on flannel, Thunder cuddled protective and warm on his left, Cyclone just as close and just as watchful on his right. Lightning paced slowly around them, finally stopping, folding her legs, bellying down behind him with her head laid over his shoulder. “I couldn’t … I wasn’t … fast enough,” he said hollowly, and in the dim light, Linn knew his youngest son’s expression was the same thing he’d seen in his own mirror after terrible events, after too many terrible events, and his son’s words were the same ones he himself had spoken in such moments. Michael looked up at his father. “I tried,” he almost whispered. “I honestly tried!” Linn nodded slowly as Cyclone laid her head over on his cross-legged lap, as his hand found the soft fur behind her ear, as she closed her eyes contentedly and chirped, a sleepy little note of utter bliss. “I hear the same thing from the Irish Brigade,” Linn said quietly, in that reassuring voice fathers use in such moments. “They don’t get called until the fire is through the roof and nothing they could honestly have done, but they’ll say ‘We lost a house today’ or ‘We lost someone today’ – not their fault at all, but …” Michael felt more than saw his father take a long breath, imagined his father’s T-square shoulders rising and falling slowly as he did. “He shouted a name,” Michael finally said, his voice distant. He was honestly not sure if he’d given this intelligence when he debriefed or not. “He raised his arms and yelled “Here I come, Annie!” Linn nodded. “I kind of suspected.” “Sir,” Michael asked, “who was Annie?” “His wife,” Linn replied quietly. “She died a year ago today.” “I see, sir.” “We do our best, Michael, but sometimes things happen. In spite of our best efforts, in spite of having a fast mount” – Lightning muttered something and Michael drained the last of his hot chocolate – “sometimes we just can’t stop it.” Father and son were quiet for long minutes. Linn leaned forward, extending the thermos, and Michael accepted a refill. “I diced up some Polish sausage with green peppers and onions. It’ll fry up for a good breakfast, if you’ve a mind.” “It sounds good, sir.” “Your Mama works tomorrow so I’ll be fixin’ breakfast.” “Sounds good, sir.” Linn spun the thermos a little, swirling up the settled-out chocolate: “Not much left, you want it?” “No thank you, sir, I’ve plenty.” Linn tilted the thermos up, drank what was left, capped it: Michael handed him the empty cup, heard the plastic scrape as Linn replaced it on the chrome-ringed body. “Sir?” Michael asked as his father rose. Linn hesitated, turned to face his son squarely. “Sir, why’d you come out?” Linn was quiet for several long moments before he spoke in a quiet voice. “Thought you might need a shot of somethin’ warm,” he finally said. “Thank you, sir.”

MARNIE, IT WASN'T MY FAULT! Michael threw his head back, took a quick, exasperated breath, then lowered his head and glared at his Big Sis. In that moment, Michael did not care they were not on Earth. He did not care that politics were involved. He honestly did not care that Fanghorn canines absolutely ruined a child's coat, that the child had been hoist off the ground and transported at a hard-hooved trot, that there'd been screams, shouts, accusations. "Marnie," Michael said with the sincerity of a Little Brother Who'd Just Been Wronged, "Thunder was doing as he'd seen The Bear Killer and Tank in training!" Marnie Keller, Ambassador-at-Large for the thirteen-star-system Confederacy, Untangler of Diplomatic Difficulties and Political Misunderstandings, lowered her face into a gloved hand, shook her head and muttered, "I should never have gotten out of bed!" She looked up at Michael. "We can't just go around --" Michael's stiff finger stabbed at a touch screen, and the holographic reply lit up. A deputy in a bite suit advanced, bowlegged and awkward, swinging a switch, shouting. Tank stood beside his handler, alert, black eyes target-locked on the subject. "Hold," the handler said softly, gripping the quick release. Tank held. The waddling bite suit dropped the thin switch and pulled a rubber knife, grabbed for a child-sized dummy. The deputy released the Malinois. Tank needed no further command. A black-masked, tan arrow shot across the intervening distance, seized the bite suit's arm: the momentum of 70 pounds of lean muscle and bone, running flat-out and clamping steel-trap jaws on the bite suit's padded arm, was enough to bring a braced, prepared, grown man off his feet. The Malinois pulled, growling, tail swinging. Not far away, two pale eyed children and three Fanghorn watched. Thunder chirped and Cyclone echoed the chirp; Lightning's head was lowered, her eyes closed with pleasure as Michael used a coarse brush to curry around her jaw and around the base of her ears. It wasn't until they'd left, not for a day and a night and a day again, that Michael realized how fast Fanghorn young can learn. Paramedic training was not the only skill being exported to the Outer Worlds -- unofficially, without the knowledge or permission of governments or politicians. The Sheriff had been approached by brother lawmen, on other planets, and agreed to help them start their own K9 officer programs. Michael and Victoria were intimately familiar with K9 officers, their training, their capabilities: many's the time they would each lace on lightweight boots and take off at a run on mountain trails with a leashed Malinois or Shepherd or Staffy: working dogs take exercise, they have to burn off their energies, and children have these energies to spare: Michael and Victoria would travel a distance on foot and hide, and the variety of K9 partners would track them: Michael and Victoria would conceal certain compounds that were officially "Of Concern" -- they would hide them and hide them well, and they rejoiced when keen noses sniffed these out. This training was not exclusively conducted on Earth. Michael found out, entirely by accident, that both Thunder and Cyclone had scenting abilities that were --admittedly not as keen -- but pretty damned good, they learned that, like the Malinois, they were sight hunters, they already knew they were pursuit predators, with a love for running. It was an honest misunderstanding when, at a demonstration before influential folk of politics and of business, that a genuine call came in: two children were lost -- Marnie later suspected this was a surreptitious, unofficial test, invented on the spur of the moment by a skeptic who didn't really believe these quadrupedal creatures could actually track someone. A jacket was produced, and a hat: Malinois and Fanghorn muzzles both explored these, snuffing loudly at the olfactory exemplars. Tank scented the air, as did Thunder: men drew back, for they'd seen Tank at speed, they'd seen those ivory fangs open and snap shut, hard, on a padded arm, they'd heard that deep snarling, utterly intimidating growl as the bite-suited quarry was downed, pulled steadily to prevent escape. Tank and Thunder scented the ground, moving with purpose: Thunder's head came up, nostrils flared, then he surged forward, weaving through people and into the park behind. Tank forked off to the left, toward a low building. Tank came back, fairly strutting, with an apple-cheeked little girl running beside him, her happy laughter as bright as the sunshine that warmed the scene. The scene as Thunder returned was not quite as ... pastoral. A red-faced little boy kicked bare legs and swung indignant arms, his face red with loud-voiced protestations. He was not happily accompanying the half-grown Fanghorn. He was swinging from clamped-shut jaws. Thunder's head was up, his ears were up, his tail was up, he was fairly strutting as he trotted back to the gathered assemblage: the Malinois and the Fanghorn both arrived at the same time, the little girl clapped her hands with delight, and the little boy was unceremoniously dropped about a foot as Thunder relinquished his prize. The back of the little boy's jacket was fang-pierced and soaked with slobber, the six year old child was mad as hell that he'd been found out, but worse, that he'd been packed back like luggage! Marnie sighed and shook her head. "You don't understand, Michael," Marnie said quietly. "Thunder could have --" "So could Tank have," Michael cut her off. "We trust Tank because he's trained. I trust Thunder because I've trained him. He learns fast, Marnie. He knows to be careful with children. He hasn't eaten one in a week." Marnie turned, eyes wide and alarmed, until she saw her little brother's eyes. Marnie was Ambassador, yes, but Marnie was also a mother, with a boy-child of her own, and Marnie was a Big Sister with multiple brothers. "Michael," she sighed, "nobody realized Fanghorns have -- well, fangs -- not until Thunder brought that little boy back with big holes in his jacket." "I'll replace the jacket," Michael interrupted. "Nobody realized Fanghorns could scent. Nobody realized Fanghorns could scent-trail or find lost kids." "Nobody asked me," Michael interrupted again. "I could have told 'em." "Michael, you don't realize," Marnie said, exasperation edging her voice. "Not only are we opening up canines in law enforcement on who knows how many worlds, now I'm getting requests for police Fanghorns!" Michael stopped, blinked, then frowned, concerned. "This ain't good," he said quietly. "Like it or not, Michael, you're right in the middle of it. You can grab hold of this situation and guide it, you can ride the tsunami and steer it, or it can crash and destroy." Michael sat down slowly, the enormity of Marnie's words taking root -- fast! -- in his quick young imagination. "This," he said softly, "is not what I'd planned on." "You've established a good commerce in hymnals, in publishing, in general literature," Marnie said quietly, gliding over and sitting beside her suddenly deflated younger brother. "It's your choice whether you wish to guide Fanghorn propagation and training. If there's a market demand, there will be people willing to feed that market, legally or otherwise." Michael swallowed hard, stared at the far wall, his mind working. "Think about it," Marnie said quietly. "You are the current Interstellar Expert on Fanghorn behavior and psychology. Imagine back in Old Pale Eyes' time, if you were the one individual controlling the sales and training of horses --" Marnie let the idea dangle. Michael sat there, staring, mind busy: Marnie withdrew, left her younger brother to his thoughts, and she didn't see him again until that evening. Michael was currying Cyclone, bent over a little: he had her off forehoof up, between his knees, he was scraping her unshod hoof, then lightly brushing out the fetlock before letting it back down. Cyclone's chin was laid over Thunder's withers, her eyes closed. Marnie was honestly surprised. She never knew a Fanghorn could actually look contented. Michael lowered her forehoof -- he hadn't seen Marnie yet -- he laid one arm over one Fanghorn neck, the other arm over the other Fanghorn neck: sandwiched between two warm, living, intelligent creatures, he sighed, hung his head. "It wasn't my fault," he said miserably. "Honest, it wasn't my fault!"

CURIOSITY Michael and Victoria were known to the Confederate worlds, thanks to the Inter-System. They were known, in part, because Michael was commonly mounted on a lightning-patterned Fanghorn, and Victoria, on an Appaloosa mare: more often than not, even on a State visit, they were flanked by a pair of half grown Fanghorn, one on either side. It was not considered the least little bit unusual that something black-furred and pink-tongued paced along with them, something that was very obviously comfortable in their company, something accepted by equine and Fanghorn alike, even here on a world where canids never developed. Although The Bear Killer was not considered unusual, when found in their company, the general public was somewhat wary of this unknown creature: they knew Fanghorns ate meat on occasion, though Michael was careful not to go into particulars, just as the general public knew that one does not approach an Appaloosa from behind, nor startle it from any direction, and so The Bear Killer was regarded with a healthy degree of caution. Except, of course, by children. There is a natural and mutual affinity between the young of any species. When The Bear Killer looked around and yawned, displaying a fine set of fighting ivory, when The Bear Killer sat and surveyed this, his new (if short-lived) kingdom, The Bear Killer assessed his surroundings. Not just threat assessment, which was natural, given his bloodline. The Bear Killer considered the variety of scents with a professional nose. Michael and Victoria were busy with whatever it was they’d been invited for; The Bear Killer picked up no scents of stress, heard no changes in voices that indicated a danger was about: given this assurance, he touched noses with Thunder, as if sharing a silent communication. The Bear Killer assessed his surroundings with a professional eye, approached a child with a half eaten sausage sandwich. The Bear Killer did what The Bear Killer did very well. He regarded the dainty, the edible, with big, dark, puppy-dog eyes, and whined a little, and the child did what the child did very well: he offered The Bear Killer the uneaten half. The Bear Killer’s tail swung with unmitigated delight as he took the offering, carefully, gently: tentative young fingers stroked his sun-warmed fur, and The Bear Killer happily scrubbed a trace of sausage grease off a laughing little boy’s hand. More children gravitated toward the little boy’s quiet laugh: The Bear Killer’s jaws were open in a happy doggy grin as he accepted the adulation that was his rightful due. At least in his mind. He’d closed his eyes and gave a happy, puppy-like yow-wow-wow, gentle, contented, which delighted his young supplicants. The Bear Killer’s head came up, suddenly, ears perked. This sudden move caused the adoring young to hesitate, to draw back a little. A baby, blanket wrapped and in a wicker basket, decided it was not happy at being ignored: its tiny face screwed up and reddened, and it gave the first hesitant sounds of a little one just fixin’ to cloud up and rain all over the place. The Bear Killer twisted, wove through the crowd, ran to the unhappy infant: forepaws on the table, he shoved his blunt muzzle into the basket and gave a loud, curious sniff. The infant, who was concentrating on drawing the energies from the Dark Universe in order to distill them into a truly devastating, earth-shattering scream, paid no attention, at least until The Bear Killer’s warm tongue taste-tested the back of a tiny, clenched fist. An infant’s eyes snapped open, startled, and saw something big, black, close by. Surprised, the Baby in the Basket did what babies do, and that was reach for The Bear Killer. The crowd parted as two Fanghorns eased forward, curious as to what their companion was seeing, or perhaps at the strange noises this odd discovery made a moment ago. The Bear Killer tilted his head curiously, regarded the undecided little red-face with button-bright eyes. The baby, perhaps remembering that he’d set upon a course of Pique and Unhappiness, waved his little pink fists and screwed his face up again, and this time cut loose with a baby-sized caterwaul. The Bear Killer threw his head back and sang with the child. Startled, the baby stopped crying, looked with big-eyed surprise at this source of a harmonious counterpoint: a few more moments, he cried again, and again The Bear Killer gave a gentle, sustained “woo-woo-woo” – not a full-voiced howl, more like an expression of sympathy, or of understanding. When the baby stopped to take a breath and recharge his systems, he looked up to see two more faces regarding him with solemn curiosity. An infant is likely not able to recognize that three carnivorous Messengers of Death, three engines of bloody destruction, were regarding him from very close range. An infant, however, can recognize a kindred soul, and so this particular infant, bare moments from having loudly voiced his general unhappiness with the universe at large, gave a gurgling laugh and reached up, batting its little pink fingers at what it didn’t quite recognize, but wanted to explore anyhow. Cyclone lifted her head and looked at Thunder, and Thunder lifted his head and looked at Cyclone, and The Bear Killer gave a little pink face a happy lick: two Fanghorns chirped, a baby laughed, and a young mother smiled. She might not know what a Fanghorn was, she certainly did not know what a Bear Killer was, but she knew what guardians were, and her maternal instinct told her that her child, in this moment, was probably safer than it had ever been.

A FORMAL INTRODUCTION Sean Finnegan, the broad-shouldered, blacksmith-armed Chief of the Firelands Fire Department, aggressively planted a broad brogan on the polished brass foot rail and leaned muscled forearms on the mirror polished mahogany bar top. His head was thrust forward, as was his jaw, his face was set and he glared into the broad mirror behind the bar with a ferocity that had stopped bar fights and caused hard men to stop whatever it was they were doing at the moment. The man beside him was not at all intimidated by the big, red-headed Irishman's expression. Each man held their silent counsel, even when Mr. Baxter slid a brimming, cool, freshly-beheaded mug of beer in front of each: the pomaded barkeep looked from one hard man to the other hard man, raised an eyebrow, lifted his chin in response to another thirsty patron's summons. Sean laid a broad, blunt-fingered, but surprisingly gentle hand between the other fellow's shoulder blades. "Yon's a fine, strong woman," he said softly. "She's borne ye fine young an' I doubt me not she's callin' ye anythin' but decent while she's doin' of it." Sheriff Linn Keller glared at his pale eyed reflection, worked his jaw, then shook his head, sighed quietly and straightened: he took a long pull on his beer, hesitated while a girl slipped a plate in front of him, her hand cool as she laid it over Sean's companionable knuckles, still laid across an impressive percentage of the Sheriff's back. "You must eat," she almost whispered. "Another child means you'll be busier now." The Sheriff turned, looked at the girl -- she was about fifteen or so, he was surprised she wasn't married already -- he smiled, almost sadly, and said "Thank you, darlin'," in a gentle voice. She gave him a big-eyed innocent look, her eyes liquid and dark, then she turned and skipped like a little girl back down the hallway toward Daisy's kitchen. Linn slid his plate over toward Sean. Sean slid it back. "Th' lass is right," he rumbled. "Ye must keep up yer strength! Just think o' all that ye maun be doin' now! Why, ye'll have young t' teach how t' whistle an' how t' whittle, how t' --" Sarah Lynne McKenna sat alone in the Sheriff's study. His cavalry saber normally hung on the far wall in the Sheriff's office, where he could turn, and look at it, or he could reach up and fetch it down easily. He kept his saber sharp -- the Sheriff was particular about its edge -- it was good steel, it took a good edge, and Sarah had managed to remove it to the Sheriff's study, for reasons of her own. She worked steadily, quietly, studying the blade's edge, studying the edge the Sheriff placed: it was not smooth, it did not shine with the precision of a razor's shaving edge: no, this almost sparkled. Sarah ran her palm along its length, moving her flat hand slightly from its spine to its edge, feeling the coarse edge: she remembered examining Dr. Greenlees' scalpels, and how they had this same sparkle-looking, miniature-sawblade edge. Sarah slipped curved steel back into its scabbard, hung it on a likely peg. Upstairs, the women were attending Esther, who was in labor: Sarah left that duty to those with experience in the art: she slipped out, silent in her flat-heeled shoes: she would return, but she wished to take a moment away from what felt like stifling femininity. She stood and considered the saber, hanging on a peg, at a convenient height for a man to grasp, and whispered, "A man's infant son should take its first solid food from the tip of his father's blade," then she turned, took a deep breath, flowed back up the stairs to the bedroom. Neither her absence, nor her return, had been missed. Sarah resumed her silent, solemn watch, a step behind her mother Bonnie, and Daisy, the sharp-tongued, green-eyed Irishwoman. Sarah watched as Dr. Greenlees turned, slung the contents of the washpan out the open window, poured water from the pitcher into the basin, washed his hands yet again: Sarah watched with pale and assessing eyes, knowing Dr. Greenlees' obsession with cleanliness was reflected in the rarity of infections among his patients. Sarah blinked, saw Esther had a blanket wrapped infant at her breast. She saw the woman was also still in delivery position. Sarah blinked, took a step back as Esther's head snapped back, teeth clenched, as the fingers of her free hand clawed up a good handful of bedsheet, as her sweaty face turned scarlet and she gave a stifled groan. Dr. Greenlees leaned in, he did something, Sarah couldn't see quite what -- He turned a fleshy, discolored, misshapen -- Another baby? Sarah thought, her mouth opening: she saw Daisy bouncing on her toes, saw her mother bend a little and blot Esther's forehead, Sarah heard feminine voices as from a distance -- "And what if Esther births me a little girl child?" Linn asked quietly. Sean chuckled, nodded his understanding: his Daisy was with child herself, though she'd barely begun to show: Sean was father to a little red-headed Irishman and a red-headed girl-child himself, and he too faced the quandary of not knowing what he'd have to teach his daughter: when he told Daisy he'd build their little red-headed warrior princess a fine Irish war-chariot and teach her the ways of the legendary Queen Boudicca, Daisy's Irish-green eyes snapped, as did her voice, and she threatened to unscrew Sean's head and stuff a yard of good Irish peat down his neck before puttin' his head back on upside down so he'd ne'er see straight again, which of course meant Sean laughed that great powerful manly laugh of his, and he'd snatched up his Daisy-me-dear and crushed her to him and whirled her around, and he'd planted his mouth on hers while she thrashed and kicked and hit at him, until she melted and returned his attentions, and likely that's how she ended up wi' a bit of a maternal belly today. "There's somethin' on yer mind, now," Sean rumbled quietly so only the two of them could hear, and Linn glared at his reflection and nodded. "I can do many things, Sean," Linn said thoughtfully. "I can fix what's broke and I can make bad situations better, or at least give it a damned good try." Sean considered this, took a pull on his beer. "If Esther needs something built, I build it, or arrange to have it built. If she can't reach something, I stretch up and get it." Sean nodded again, set his beer down, turned his head slightly, listening. "Esther ... I can't ... she's got to deliver this child herself," Linn said. "I know the ladies are with her, I know Doc Greenlees is there, but Esther is the only one who can do this, I'm just in the way ..." Sean looked to his left, then turned and looked around, making certain nobody was in earshot. He lowered his great head again and said in low voice, "I ne'er felt s'damned helpless as when Daisymedear was hatchin' an' I couldna' help!" Linn took a long breath, sighed it out, nodded. "That," he said decisively, "is exactly the case!" They both looked at their beer. "Ye've no' touched yer sandwich." "I've no appetite." "Nor have I." The girl had halved the sandwich before bringing it out. Each man seized half, ate it like he was starved: they washed down their quick meal with the rest of their beer, straightened. "Reckon I'd best go see." "Aye." Two men and a Bear Killer waited in the Sheriff's study. They listened to the quick patter of young feet descending the stairs. Sarah Lynne McKenna opened the door, folded her hands in her apron. "Gentlemen," Sarah said formally, "if you could come with me, please, introductions are in order." Sean and Linn looked at one another, looked at The Bear Killer. The Bear Killer looked up at them with an expression of bright-eyed, tongue-wobbling, tail-swinging, canine delight. Sarah let The Bear Killer out: she well knew that excited Bear Killers and little boys share the common characteristic of a Bladder the Size of a Walnut, and young though she was, she knew enough to prevent misunderstandings whenever possible. Esther lay on fresh linens, she wore a fresh nightgown and held a red-faced, flannel-wrapped infant to each breast. Linn leaned down, kissed her forehead, whispered, "You're beautiful." "Liar," Esther smiled. The Bear Killer launched up onto the bed from the other side, drove his blunt black muzzle into the nearest bundle, sniffed loudly, tail swinging: he sniffed at the other, cocked his head and gave Esther a puzzled look. "Yes, they're both mine," Esther murmured. "Bear Killer, down," Sarah said quietly: The Bear Killer turned, jumped to the floor. Esther looked from one newborn to the other, with the gentle expression of an exhausted mother. Bonnie gripped the Sheriff's arm, gave him a knowing look. "Mr. Keller," she said mischeviously, "I believe introductions are in order." "Run out of my own house," Linn muttered. He and Sean walked side by side, Apple-horse following. "Ah, lad," Sean rumbled, "let th' ladies reign this day. God knows yer Esther worked hard enough for't!" "She did that," Linn said in a wondering voice, then: "Twins." He shook his head. "I know Esther was big, but ..." He shook his head, his voice distant. "Twins." "Aye!" Sean roared happily, dropping a massive hand to the man's far shoulder and shaking him companionably: "ye're a man wi' loins s'potent that ye sire yer young in LITTERS!" Two men laughed

MIRROR "You're quiet." Esther Keller's words were gently spoken: supper was a subdued affair, as if the entire family knew something wasn't quite right, but nobody was really sure just what. Esther's pale eyed husband considered for a moment, then tore another sweet roll in two and puttied each half with a thick layer of fresh churned. He looked at the hired girl, watching warily from a little distance back -- she'd had to have sawed a hole in the wall to retreat any further -- his eyes were as gentle as his wife's voice as he said, "Thank you, Mary. That was genuinely good." The hired girl looked uncertainly at Esther, then gave a quick knee-dip before slipping out of the room. Linn's youngest looked at him with big and innocent eyes, knowing on one level something was not quite right, but with a full belly and gentle voices, nothing could be terribly wrong -- at least not in their young worlds. It was not until after supper, not until Esther supervised their young into tending their studies, not until she'd withdrawn, slipped silently down the hall, and entered her husband's book-lined study, that she spoke further. Sheriff Linn Keller looked up at the sound of his wife's voice: he closed the volume he held, crossed the room, took her hands in his -- carefully, as he always did -- behind closed doors, in the privacy of the moment, he kissed his wife with the care and the gentleness he practiced whenever possible. Linn drew back a little, looked at the comfortably upholstered seat Esther favored: she sat, dropped her eyes and tried to hide her smile at the admiration in her husband's eyes, wondering for the hundred thousandth time what he ever saw in her that made him think she was anywhere near graceful. Linn picked up his own chair, brought it over, placed it, sat. Esther waited. Linn frowned as he arranged his thoughts. "You'll remember," he said quietly, "I described what I saw in the Valley." Esther's eyes widened, then narrowed: her green eyes were very direct, their shining intensity, reply enough. Linn lifted his head, considered the texture of the ceiling, allowed his eyes to follow the crown molding, then looked back down at his wife. "Often times when a man asks another man's advice," he said thoughtfully, "the best thing I can do is help find the answer he's already got." "I have noticed your skill," Esther replied carefully, "in helping with these ... discoveries." She tilted her head thoughtfully. "I take it you helped someone find such an answer?" Linn nodded. "Stranger he was, out on East Branch. He looked just plainly lost." Esther considered the moments when her husband's expression was just that -- just plainly lost -- she said nothing, just listened. "We set a small fire and made coffee, we set and he talked and I listened." Esther's eyes never left her husband's: she was motionless, her expression, her posture telling her husband that she was giving him absolute and undivided attention. "He'd lost someone not long ago, and he was troubled by it." Linn's bottom jaw eased out as he leaned back, took a long breath, blew it out. "I fetched out my Scripture and he throwed a couple ideas at me, so I went over and set beside him so he could see the Word." Esther's head turned, just a little, and she leaned forward ever so slightly. "He said she -- didn't say who 'she' was, just ... she'd been terrible scairt at what was to come. "He wondered aloud what comes after dyin'." Esther frowned just a little: Linn saw it and nodded. "You've heard me describe what it was like to die twice. You heard me talk about seein' the Valley and how I did not want to come back." He frowned, considered, pressed forward. "I didn't tell him about that. "He quoted Ecclesiastes, how the dead know not any thing, he wasn't comfortable a'tall with that idea, so I turned to Luke -- 'This day you will be with me in Paradise' -- he gave that a good thinkin' over and allowed as that must be the right of it. "Come to find out he'd already considered Luke. I reckon he just needed someone to show him again." "Did he seem satisfied with what you showed him, dear?" Esther murmured. Linn leaned forward, took his wife's hand again, nodded. "He already had the answer," he replied gently, raised her hand, kissed her knuckles. "I just had to hold up the mirror so he could see it."

An Aside The Lady Esther, in my imagination, is an early Baldwin diamond-stacker, but in the stories I've spun, I wrote of her being fired with coal: this would argue for her having a coal stack rather than the traditional diamond stack. I am incurably romantic when it comes to things like steam engines, big furry hound dogs, truly huge horses and Appaloosas: Apple-horse was very real, and I grieved in private when Granddad sold him, but that's beside the point. Steam locomotives, whether rail mounted or traction engines, are something I've long loved. A very few times I've heard a steam whistle in the hill country back home, sounding like ghosts singing in the faraway wind. Gracie seemed to like it. This that I'm trying to link, sounds kind of like The Lady Esther sounds in my imagination. So much for author's comments. Back to the story line. Steam Whistle on a High Trestle

Scientifically correct. Recent news articles report most store bought sunscreen is ineffective and most are chemically harmful. Ye tin roof is SPF Effective!

Take a sewing thimble between thumb and forefinger. Pick up a spike nail with the other thumb and forefinger. Use the nail's head to tamp all my working knowledge of the Australian hopper beast down into said sewing thimble. You will now have room enough to pour in a quart of whiskey!

A CHOIR OF GHOSTS Sarah Lynne McKenna waited behind two great boulders. Erosion, or catastrophe, loosened them from the mountainside above, who knows how many years before: smaller rocks provided sun-warmed, surprisingly clean, dry seats for herself and Gracie. Gracie had her fiddle with her -- Sarah had her in a gown in the City, wearing a glitter mask, while Sarah, also in a glitter mask, and in a scandalous dancing-girl dress and frillies, shook her trotters on stage and netted them both an unexpectedly good purse. Now they were returned home, Gracie back in her usual shapeless hat and colorless dress, Sarah almost as drab: Gracie's riding mule was sleepily consulting the local vegetation, while Sarah's huge Snowflake-mare drowsed in the sun nearby. "I think it's here," Sarah told Gracie a few minutes earlier, when Sarah consulted her watch. Gracie's eyes were bright with anticipation. Sarah described the new, lower-pitched whistle The Lady Esther wore, something Bill the engineer wanted to try: Sarah and Gracie both knew where the echo was funneled by trackside topography, and Sarah, with her perfect pitch, speculated the lower-toned whistle would have what she called "a spooky sound." The Lady Esther was barking as she pulled the section -- there was a grade, not enough to really slow her velocity, but enough Bill had to give her more throttle to keep his speed, and that meant her four-count chant was loud and powerful -- moreso as she came into the natural sound funnel. Gracie chinned her fiddle, ready to spin a curlyback melody with the steam engine's cracking chant. She raised her bow, eyes closed, absorbing the steam engine's rhythm into her very soul. Then Bill hauled down on the whistle's chain. Gracie's eyes snapped open, wide, wide ... Sarah's eyes met Gracie's, and the two felt their breath catch. It didn't sound spooky. Spooky wasn't a comprehensive enough term for what they both heard, for the very first time. The lower pitched steam whistle, directed and partially delayed by this trick of geographic structure, didn't sound like a single voice. It sounded like an entire, harmonized, spectral, choir. Gracie's eyes wandered a little to the side as she replayed its voice, feeling it shivering in her bones, she looked back at Sarah, her expression the same marveling, wondrous look of a child beholding a field full of lightning bugs for the very first time. Gracie was so utterly entranced that The Lady Esther was past them, and gone, before she remembered ... ... her fiddle was under her chin, as forgotten as the rosined bow, not budged from its vertical position. Gracie's voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "Sarah," she managed, "that was as gorgeous as the church choir." Gracie blinked a few times, looked back at her dear friend, blinked. "That sounded like a choir of ghosts!"

It does go to ground. With those unholy megavoltages, current blasts from bottom dead center of the rims, runs like snaking liquid fire over tire sidewalls, and into the ground. I forget where I saw the photograph of the phenomenon.

A KIND MAN’S STRENGTH An anonymous arm thrust itself through the partially open door, a white-waxed-paper doughnut sack swinging from gripping fingers. An unsmiling diplomat looked up, closed her eyes for a long moment as this unexpected visitor whistled, a quick, liquid, two-note question. Angela pushed the door open a little, stuck her head in: “Marnie? Permission to come aboard?” Marnie removed her pince-nez from the bridge of her nose, closed her eyes: she rubbed the contact points with gloved fingers, heard her sister close the door, heard the doughnut sack land gently on the table. “ ‘I’m thinking about you’ is only words,” Angela said quietly. “Doughnuts say it better.” Marnie opened her eyes, glared at her sister and snarled, “You’d better have white cream filled in there!” “Chocolate iced stick, your favorite.” Angela went over to the wall mounted dispenser, keyed in two mugs of hot tea: she carried the glazed-enamel mugs back to the table, set them down, pulled out a chair and sat. Marnie’s gloved hand gripped the now-open sack’s edge; Angela seized the other side: they pulled, quickly, tearing the sack open. They’d done this as children, which earned them a scolding from their mother, which of course meant that every time they brought doughnuts home, that’s how they accessed the pastries. “Do I guess why you’re here?” Marnie asked before taking a dainty nibble of fresh, fragrant, still-warm pastry. “Go to hell and eat your doughnut,” Angela said, then took a quick bite out of her own: she closed her eyes and chewed happily, swallowed. “Mmm, strawberry,” she purred. “Mama is allergic to strawberries,” Marnie said quietly. “That’s why I eat them here and not there.” Two sisters sipped steaming Earl Grey, lowered their doughnuts, each tilting her head to the left, each regarding the other with assessing eyes. “Well?” “Well what?” “Well what are you going to lecture me about?” Angela’s eyes widened innocently. “Why would I lecture you?” Marnie’s eyes closed halfway. “Littlejohn.” Angela sighed, shook her head. “No,” she said. “Says the woman without husband or children.” “Says the woman who came to warn you.” Marnie raised an eyebrow, raised her defenses. “Warn me?” “You know Littlejohn went to see Daddy.” Marnie turned her head, just a little. Angela trained to read body language. So had Marnie. Each knew the other was looking at the other for more than politenesss. Both knew the they were assessing each other, part of the interrogation skills they’d learned from their pale eyed Daddy, and from subsequent law enforcement training. “It’s not Littlejohn,” she said. “It’s Daddy.” Marnie’s defensiveness had been a glass shield, held in front of her, to let her see clearly, but protect her from attack. Now that shield hit the floor and shattered. “Daddy told me what he told Littlejohn, Marnie,” Angela said quietly, leaning forward, her forearm pressing into the tabletop. “Aannnddd ….?” “Daddy did what Daddy does. best” Marnie’s stomach fell several feet. “What did Daddy do?” Marnie asked, her throat suddenly dry. Angela closed her eyes, opened them, took a sip of tea, swallowed. “You know Daddy … knew … someone before he married Mama.” Marnie turned a gloved hand a little in reply. “When Daddy talked to Littlejohn, he was … he’d … just gotten a death notice.” Marnie nodded, barely, as her sister’s words confirmed what her gut was afraid of. “Daddy was always gentlest when he was hurt.” Marnie tore her half of the doughnut sack, carefully, laying it out flat, placing her half eaten, chocolate iced, white-cream-filled on white waxed paper: she placed her hands in her lap and gave her sister her disconcertingly unblinking attention. “When I got there, Daddy had me hold a 2x4 under one edge of a lid.” “A lid,” Marnie echoed. Angela took a deep breath, looked to the side and blinked twice, then looked back. “Her name was Rosalee,” Angela said quietly, “and Daddy loved her … once …” “Rosalee?” Marnie asked, shaking her head a little. “I’m not …” “They remained friends, apparently … Rosalee lost a leg to infection and Daddy paid for her power wheelchair, and he helped her … financially … several times.” Marnie raised an eyebrow, just a little. “He said … he was screwing a rectangular wooden lid above the pegboard over his workbench, out in the barn.” Marnie frowned, turned her head a little, listening closely. “He said the lid was from a rotted-out old chest Rosalee’s father built her when Rosalee was a little girl. It had a horse shoe in the middle of the lid and it was painted silver. Over the years the bottom rotted out and the sides decayed, but she kept the lid … he said it reminded him …” Angela picked up her tea, took a sip, took another, then she seized a glazed twist and bit into it with a surprising ferocity. “So you’re saying Daddy was hurting when he talked to Littlejohn.” Angela slurped tea noisily, indelicately, chewed: she swallowed, harrumphed. “Marnie, what did you tell Littlejohn about his going into the cave-in?” Marnie’s bottom jaw shoved out, slowly, as she considered: Angela could not miss the hardening of her sister’s expression. “I was not very … understanding,” Marnie admitted, looking away, looking toward Littlejohn’s bedroom. “You weren’t, but Daddy was,” Angela said quietly. “Did you talk to Littlejohn for Irising out without telling you first?” Marnie blinked several times, shook her head. “No. No, I didn’t. Not yet.” “You know he went.” Marnie nodded. “Of course you did,” Angela murmured. “Mothers always know.” “Ours did,” Marnie replied, and there was no smile in either her voice, nor in her eyes. She looked at Angela, her voice softer, suddenly vulnerable. “How’s Daddy?” Angela lowered her head, glared at her sister. “You know Daddy. He’s got that wall up again. ‘I’m fine, nothing’s wrong, pardon me while I hold the world at arm’s length.’” Marnie’s lips pressed together as she nodded, as she lowered her forehead into the heel of her gloved palm. “Stupid, stubborn, hard headed, contrary,” she muttered. “Obdurate, recalcitrant, mule-brained,” Angela added helpfully. “That too.” Marnie threw her head back, took a great, open-mouth gulp of air, like she was coming up from too-deep a dive. “He confirms what I’d taught in a psychology presentation,” Angela said. Marnie raised an eyebrow, curious. “When a truly strong man is in pain, if it’s at all possible, that truly strong man will be kind.” Marnie nodded, closing her eyes against a memory her sister’s words resurrected. “Yes,” she whispered. “You’re right.”

That may well have been the case!

Some years ago, lightning hit my wire ham radio antenna and blew right through what I'd thought were adequate lightning protections. Attaching link to a Norman, Oklahoma, police car being struck by lightning. Vehicle was empty at the time, just sitting in the parking lot, minding its own business. I see what seems to be at least one tree behind it. Trees are taller than the vehicle's roofline; I have to believe a police station would be taller than the vehicle's strike point; surely there were also flagpoles and other conductive structures proximate to this cruiser's metal roof. This illustrates our superintendent's observation that "Lightning does what lightning will." Watching this ... my sense of safety is somewhat diminished! https://www.msn.com/en-us/weather/topstories/oklahoma-police-vehicle-damaged-by-lightning-strike/vi-AA1F89i9?ocid=BingNewsSerp

I recall a Korean war veteran speaking of facing human wave attacks, rest his soul. I was told later it was the only time he ever spoke of his experience there. I do recall it was the first time I ever saw memories haunt both a man's eyes and his voice.

Dear old Dad tried to teach me at a tender age that "Hurry up is brother to mess it up" and I came close to proving him right yet again ... ... just about posted something about one of those rare Guyfoot horses, but like previous posters mentioned, the longer I looked the more I realized ... ... duhhhh ... no, best not comment, just walk away slow, don't make eye contact ...

SUNSET, AND A BALE OF HAY A skinny boy sat on a saddleblanket. He'd spread it out the full width of the hay bale, then sat at one end, as if hoping someone would set down beside him. He'd dragged the bale out of his Grampa's barn where the afternoon sun hit. He didn't get much sun on Mars. Littlejohn sat down, leaned forward, elbows on his knees and forehead in his hands. He'd gotten a talking-to for grabbing the mine tractor, he'd been spoken to about jumping into a situation, he'd been addressed for acting before he thought. He'd also been praised by more people than he could count, he'd been hugged by grateful parents and upheld as a fine example of what a young man should be. Now he'd probably be spoken to again. He'd keyed up an Iris without his Mama's let-be, nor his Pa's, and he'd gone to the one place where he knew he'd not get any of that. He went to Grampa Linn's ranch, back on Earth. Littlejohn took a long breath, grateful his Pa used that quantum extractor field to strip the excess mucus his lungs produced in response to the dust he'd inhaled -- he could breathe ever so much better now -- his father set up something resembling an assembly line, with filthy-faced children in quick-fabricated seats, and he'd swung the ceiling-mounted apparatus from one to the next to the next, mapping their pulmonary trees, clearing the dust out of noses and sinuses, mouths and tracheae, he'd brought all the contaminants out of every last alveolar bulb: each got a breathing treatment, mostly sterilized saline mist: Littlejohn showered afterward, he'd gotten himself clean, but his Mama (like mothers everywhere!) insisted on inspecting him, which consisted of turning his ears forward and looking behind, of carefully wiping inside his ears like he was still just a little kid! -- he'd protested, "Aww, Maaaaw," like boys everywhere, but he'd held still for her ministrations. Now he sat on a saddleblanket and a bale of hay, he felt mountains around him and sun on his bare legs, he felt wind on his arms and on his face, and he closed his eyes. He didn't hear their approach. He felt fur, warm and welcome, as The Bear Killer leaned happily against his shin bones, and his hands lowered and opened and The Bear Killer greeted him with a face-washing that was received with absolutely no protest. Something warm and solid eased down beside him and he felt a wrinkle of denim push into his hip and he smelled his Grampaw and he ran an arm around strong, manly ribs and leaned his head into the reassuring comfort he was hoping for. "I heard about your rescue," Linn said quietly. He felt Littlejohn stiffen a little. "Are your hands sore?" Littlejohn opened his eyes, surprised, blinked a few times, then pulled away, brought his hands around, looked at them. Linn saw his grandson close his hands, then open them, saw his shoulders sag. "A little," he admitted. "John," Linn said in the quiet, gentle, deep tones of a grandfather who remembered what it was to be a boy with easily bruised feelings, "I'd be interested to know how much dirt and rock you moved with just your two hands." "Mama wasn't happy," he admitted. "And Doctor John?" "He didn't say much about it." "That bad." Linn's voice was sympathetic. Littlejohn nodded. Linn's arm draped over his grandson's shoulders, at once understanding, and protective. "You acted, John," Linn said quietly. "You saw people were in danger and you acted." Littlejohn nodded. "Nobody else was there, John. We know they had rescue teams that came in behind you, but you were there before anybody else was. You got to them first. You took action. You let them know they were not alone." Linn tightened his arm around his grandson's shoulder -- just a little -- just enough to emphasize what he was saying. "They were scared as hell, John," he whispered, and somehow that whisper carried more weight than if he'd declared it in an orator's voice. "They were scared and you let them know help was there. You organized them and you ran a head count, you set a sentry at your back and you got your people out." Linn came off the bale -- he didn't stand, he swung around, he squatted, he reached up and lightly, very lightly, gripped his grandson's shoulders. His eyes were wide, unblinking, and a distinct, light, pale blue. "John," Linn said, and John could hear the smile in his voice, "I am pretty damned proud of you!" A skinny boy who'd been told contradicting things at home, a skinny boy who'd just been told exactly what he should have been told in the first place, came off the hay bale and ran his arms around his long tall Granddad. A Western Sheriff with an iron grey mustache closed his eyes and held his grandson and whispered again, whispered, for his lips were almost touching the pink-scrubbed young ear. His arms tightened as his warm breath tickled the fine hairs of a ten-year-old boy's left ear. "You did well, John, and I am proud of you!"

Wetting a new dryer sheet and scrubbing off bug guts is a new one to me ... thank you, I'll keep that in mind! Warm weather in Ohio and bugs are a constant hazard!

According to (*ahem*) "A Certain Three Letter Government Agency" (*ahem*), the one thing more American fear -- over and above an IRS audit, a root canal, or a used car salesman, is ... (drum roll please) PUBLIC SPEAKING!!! Not at all rare, my wife is an excellent one-on-one teacher, but put her in front of a group and she freezes, as in marble statue, as in mind jumps out the nearest window with a parachute. We see a lesser version of this when the timer goes BEEEP and suddenly we can't remember which order to shoot the plates. Not at all a rare condition!

The lovely and esteemed Miz Fannie Kikinshoot (a blessing on her name!) expressed her strong dislike of those ssscaly ssslithering ssserpentsss ... I am content to leave them on their island, alone, undisturbed by my cautious and standoffish self!

... again, my apologies for what was obviously my screw-up ... trust me, I can get in trouble just settin' in my easy chair ...

Ambassador Marnie Keller rose abruptly. The table was small enough to be intimate, large enough to be formal: she sat with two men, alone in a conference room. Two governments contested over what each insisted were important matters, each government stubbornly head-butted with the other, the Confederacy was asked to send an arbiter, and they'd each mutually aired their grievances when the Ambassador stood -- without warning, abruptly, her eyes suddenly very pale, her face serious. She projected a hologram onto the table before them. It was her brother. "Ambassador, this is the Sheriff," Jacob said formally, "we have a situation." "State your situation," she replied crisply, her voice businesslike, her face growing more pale as she spoke. "Your son is driving a mine rescue vehicle into a mine cave-in. We have a group of grade school children trapped, unknown casualties. I am routing Rescue in behind the collapse but after the earthquake we just had, there are no guarantees they'll be able to make it." Marnie closed her eyes for a long moment, opened them to see Littlejohn's determined face, distorted a little by the mine locomotive's camera: the contrast between the Spartan and industrial interior of the vehicle, and the youth and slight stature of its driver, made the image more shocking. One of the men, seated at the table, stared at Littlejohn's determined but very young face, whispered "He's about my son's age." Two men locked eyes as the other said "I have children," and swallowed. Marnie said "Keep me informed," collapsed the hologram. "Gentlemen, I must go." They both rose and spoke with a spontaneous but united voice. "How can we help?" Littlejohn braked hard, the trailing cars ramming forward a quarter-inch apiece, slack in their couplers giving them just enough momentum to jar him a little and BANG BANG BANG surprisingly loud in the dust-thick mineshaft. Littlejohn frowned, studied the control panel: he tried one switch, another: floodlights he wished he'd had earlier seared the tunnel in a harsh illumination. Another switch. A recessed spotlight behind its armored cage rotated, shone on the pile: he steered it up, across. There's a hole, he thought. I can get through that. He looked around again, snatched a pair of gloves -- too big. They'd have to do. Tools? he thought, frowning: seeing none, he swung down, ran forward, scrambled up the pile of busted rock and sandy soil. He pulled off his gloves, keyed his wrist-unit's light, wiggled through the little gap near the ceiling, slithering on his belly like a snake, sincerely regretting he was wearing schoolboy shorts and T-shirt. Jacob moved coordinating operations to the auxiliary station in the common room. Families gathered: the entire colony shook with the planet-wide temblor, something very unusual on this normally-stable world. Jacob projected a hologram into the middle of the Common, big enough for him and everyone else to see. He projected another image-panel: Littlejohn was digging his way up the collapsed pile, toward an elliptical black hole near the top of the pile: their last sight of him were sneaker soles kicking as he worked through, as he disappeared into whatever was on the other side. "Mine Rescue Team Two, report progress." "Proceeding East on the intercept tunnel," came a man's confident voice. "We have Medical on speeders behind you." "Roger that." Pause. The holographic green line that was the second rescue team slowed, stopped. "Control, Mine Two, we're collapsed here. Backing to a spur so the digger can move in and stabilize." An anonymous hand closed on Jacob's shoulder: he reached up blindly, laid his hand firmly on a man's knuckles. He had no idea if the hand belonged to a miner, a father, or a colonist. He did know that their young were in that collapse, somewhere, and in that moment, every one of them was a parent. An Iris opened in dusty darkness. Men experienced in such matters turned on twin helmet lights, breathed easily through filtered masks. They worked silently. No conversation was needed. Heads tilted back, examined the overhead, looked at the pile. Shovels, pry bars, picks and gloved hands assaulted the incarcerating cave-in. Littlejohn breathed slowly, through his nose. Dust hung thick in the air. He slid down the scree on his belly, genuinely regretting his choice of attire, though in fairness, all he'd expected to do was go to school and sit in a classroom, and then go to his father's clinic and practice suturing again. He found children -- dusty, shocked, silent: he looked around, swung his light slowly, searching. "Where's the teacher?" he asked. "We don't know," someone replied, then coughed. "Who's Second?" "Abraham." "Abraham, report," Littlejohn called, searching. One of the schoolboys stepped forward, blinking against the thick dust, raised a glowing tablet, tapped it a few times. "Call the roll," Littljohn said quietly, giving the children some structure: as Abraham called names, they fell into line. Three were missing, and the teacher. Littlejohn frowned at his wrist-unit, wishing it was a more adult model -- he could have used an adult's scanner function -- "Where was she when this caved in?" Littlejohn asked. "We were here, I think ... she was gathering us together when the ground shook and then it all fell in and she's gone," a little voice said quietly -- there were no tears, there was no panic, just uncertainty. Littlejohn pointed up at the hole he'd slithered through. "We can get you out through there," he said. "One at a time." "What about the teacher and the others?" "We'll find them," Littlejohn said grimly. "Right now we have to get all of you to safety." A rock fell, then a hiss of loose dirt. "There might be aftershocks," Littlejohn said quietly, looking around. "Has anyone looked down-tunnel?" "It's dark," a frightened young voice said. Littlejohn considered. The fractured ground above was weak and could cave in again, but he had to get them out -- they could go deeper into the mine, but the cave-in was where rescue would start -- His Grampa Linn's voice whispered in his memory. Sometimes you have to do something, even if it's wrong. "We're getting out of here," he said decisively, "the way I came in. Stay in line. First one, climb up here with me. Tail End Charlie, keep watch down-shaft, listen for any cave-in further down." Littlejohn, not much shy of ten years old, scrambled up a pile of broken rock and sandy dirt, a classmate clawing his way up beside him. Two schoolboys began digging at the small opening, enlarging it enough to get through, letting more light into the dusty confinement. "Mars Control, this is Team Two." A pause. "Team Two, identify," Jacob said, puzzled: he looked at his deputy, frowned. "Who in the hell is Team Two?" "Marnie sent us," the unfamiliar voice replied, and Jacob's eyebrows raised. "I should have expected that," he muttered. "Team Two, go ahead." "We're clearing a second cave-in. It's not much. We should be through in a few minutes. Status on your victims." "Status unknown. Waiting for report." He clicked the mic twice. "Littlejohn, what is your status?" Littlejohn pushed against his classmate's shoe soles, shoved him through: a schoolboy rolled down the dirt and rocks into blinding light, then strong hands grabbed him, pulled him carefully upright. Littlejohn's face was momentarily in the dusty ellipse. "Reverse airflow," he called, "it's hard to breathe in here!" -- then he drew back, and was gone. A miner swung back into the cab of his tractor, keyed in a command: it took a few moments for the air handlers to stop, then reverse, but when they did, they began pushing clean air through the hole the first rescued child came through. Men worked silently, grimly. They'd mined on their respective worlds. They knew cave-ins. On their worlds, the strata were prone to fall in broad, flat, incredibly heavy layers -- swift, silent, no warning, just crushing death. Digging at sandy, unstable soil, at crushed, shattered rock, gave them a great feeling of unease: they kept looking up, as if expecting the fatal inverted funnel above them to let go again and bury them. For all their discomfiture, they worked steadily and without complaint. This cave-in was not as serious as the one where they were headed. Marnie looked up at the two representatives, still seated, watching the holographic image on the table between them. Both men stared, silent, watching live-feed images from miners' cameras, from the stationary locomotive Littlejohn initially drove down-shaft. Then they saw it. A little boy, hair dirty, face dust-smeared: hands, then head and shoulders, then he shot through, skidded down the pile. Broad-shouldered men in canvas mine coveralls blocked the camera for a moment, then the image swung, froze. A little boy, big-eyed, looking into the camera ... ... alive ... The excavator operated on advanced principles never seen in any Earthside excavation. A force-lance drove through the cave-in at its base, widened: dirt was picked up for the width of the tunnel, hoisted all of the width of a man's fingernail. The entire caved-in mass was enveloped. It was disassembled at the subatomic level, reassembled into something at quarter-density -- instead of pure Crush, where orbiting electrons were crushed into nuclei, creating the densest possible element, this was only one-quarter as dense: it was formed into hexagonal tubes, it was fashioned into a broad arch, far more than capable of supporting the entire weight of planetary mass above. They advanced steadily, creating a hex-tube wall ten meters thick, an archway they walked through as if passing through a clean-swept pedestrian tunnel with smooth walls. Littlejohn helped the smallest children up the pile, boosting them with hands and with encouragement: one by one, he got them out, pausing each time, eyes closed, taking in a precious breath of clean, dust free air before ducking back into the thick air inside. Tail End Charlie was a little girl who'd started her morning in a brand new white T-shirt with a big green frog on the front and the words KISS ME above and below. Now her T-shirt was dirt brown and so was her once-cornsilk hair. She turned and looked at Joseph. "You're the last one," Joseph said, "let's get out of here!" "We're not alone," she said, and pointed down-shaft. Littlejohn shot his wrist-light down into the darkness. Lights -- clusters of three lights, moving a little, approaching. "I SEE A LIGHT!" Men advanced at a run, heavy boots pounding the dirt as they ran. They saw a little girl, a skinny boy, an empty chamber, a pile of rubble and light and clean air coming in an elliptical hole near the ceiling. One man peeled off his mask and helmet. "Is anyone missing?" he asked. "The teacher," Littlejohn said in a serious young voice, "and three students." The man turned. "Scanners," he said, and two men surged forward, glowing devices in their hands. Transport cars shot up-shaft at illegal speeds, running each rescued child to Medical, then returning just as swiftly: one by one parents hugged, then ran for Medical as their child was identified, was declared safe. Finally only teachers and a very few parents remained, watching solemnly as men experienced at such matters, dug where their scanners told them to dig. They uncovered a hand, then a snatch of pastel material -- Jacob's hands closed into fists and he closed his eyes, took a long, silent breath. The hand on his shoulder was long gone, departed for Medical to be with his child, Jacob had no real idea which one, and he didn't care. He waited, silent, unmoving, watching as men seized rocks and rolled or threw them aside, as dirt was cleared. He looked at another image -- movement, as a surprised miner turned -- "I heard something," a voice said. The camera's image was unsteady, as if its wearer was advancing -- The image jerked again, and this time a man's voice, a full SHOUT -- "I FOUND 'EM! THEY'RE ALIVE!" A miner squatted in dusty darkness, gathered two scared schoolkids into his arms, stood, ran for his fellows, a third child gripping his hip pocket and running to keep up. Jacob threw his head back, took a quick breath, and talked to God about it. Ambassador Marnie Keller watched two men as they stood, as they faced one another, as they shook hands. Her final report would involve having shown these rescue operations to both governments' ruling bodies, and how both governments realized they were stronger together than apart. The teacher was Irised to an offworld hospital -- her injuries were serious, but with advanced care, survivable -- she would not be returning to duty for some time, but she was alive to complain about it. And when Littlejohn walked into Medical, filthy, knees and elbows skinned, coughing up dirt and shedding sand as he walked, he stopped and looked sadly at his father and said, "I ruined my T-shirt!"

... oops, glitch ... ... typical computer related problem ... ... mechanical in nature ... ... something to do with the loose nut operating the keyboard ... ... let's see if we can pick this back up ...

SNAKEHIPS Littlejohn was in class. He sat, relaxed, a boy in shorts and a T-shirt with a Fanghorn on the front, a rearing, fanged, blood-muzzled predator wearing a bright-green Derby hat and the words beneath, "I'LL HAVE ANOTHER BEER!" Littlejohn was tall and lean -- he wasn't the tall-and-skinny of Mars-normal gravity, he spent as much time as he could in earth-and-a-quarter gravity, guaranteeing his physiology would remain as Earth-normal as possible. In his younger years he complained about the extra work it made for him -- children are naturally lazy creatures, in many cases, and Littlejohn was no exception -- but when he saw the agonies of fellow Martians suffering the internal tortures of kidney stones, when his father explained quietly as he removed the stones with quantum-phased forceps that reached through living tissue as if it was not there, gripped the offending, often microscopic calculi, and extracted them without making an incision, "The human body is designed for Earth gravity, John. Mars gravity doesn't stress the bones enough and they shed calcium, and the body gets rid of extra calcium through the kidneys." He dropped the offending calculus on a microscope slide and Littlejohn examined it, startled at how aggressively spiked it was. He saw just how badly grown men hurt when attacked from within, and suddenly the young son of a Martian physician, had no further objection to living in Earth-and-a-quarter gravity. The classroom was in Mars-normal gravity. Littlejohn sat cross-legged, eyes closed, the learning helmet making him look like he was sitting under a 1950s hair dryer. He'd exceeded the education necessary for a bachelor's degree; he was, for all intents and purposes, in a greatly improved version of medical school, thanks to reverse engineered alien technology (and in this case, modifying what had been used as straight-up implements of torture, used on abducted, uncooperative humans back during the Taking -- implements that injected red agony directly into human brains, rather than the learning the aliens intended to impart) Littlejohn breathed easily, absorbing information with his usual speed, when the floor shivered under his backside. He sat on a thick-folded saddleblanket -- he'd asked his Grampa Linn if he could have it, and he still smiled a little when he remembered how his Granddad grinned when he handed him the horse-smelling, hair-covered, red-and-black-striped saddle blanket: his Mama wanted to launder it, and Littlejohn wouldn't let her, because the smell reminded him of how it felt to ride his Grampa's horses, how it felt to be a giant on the earth, carried as swift as the wind itself on a hard-charging Appaloosa stallion. Littlejohn's eyes snapped open and his hands tightened on his bare knees as he fought to transition from a detailed, immersive study of the mesenteric arterial system, and the sudden, disorienting return to his suddenly-darkened classroom. Emergency lights snapped on, as did wall-reinforcing structural containment fields. Littlejohn realized he was hearing a bugle. General Quarters, he thought as he took a long, steadying breath, as he counseled his young body to calm: All hands, battle stations! His classmates had been in the usual variety of states when learning: some were building physical representations of their geometry lessons, others were wearing the hair dryer looking apparatus, directly absorbing college level instruction; a few were seated in a semicircular group, discussing the books they'd been reading with their attentively-listening teacher. Littlejohn looked around as his fellow students calmly closed their screens or their books, as they looked to their teacher, waiting. Littlejohn did not wait. He bent his wrist, keyed in a command. A holographic projection appeared ahead of him: it was polarized, only he could see it. Earthquake, he thought. Not an attack. Safe here. He sent his Mama a quick all's-well from his location, opened the hologram and shifted its display. Part of his mind registered the teacher clapping her hands twice, her classroom signal to pay attention: Littlejohn studied the display before him with part of his mind, while another part heard the schoolteacher announce that she was not sure quite what happened, but they would remain here, that they were perfectly safe in this classroom. Littlejohn leaned forward a little, his expression intent. "Miss Mapes," he called, his hand in the air, "Group Seven is on a mine-tour field trip." Miss Mapes looked at Littlejohn, her expression going from motherly reassurance to reminded concern: her eyes widened, her hand came up to cup her mouth. Littlejohn stood easily, strode with all the boldness of a ten-year-old on a mission toward the now-sealed classroom door: he keyed an override code into his wrist-unit as he moved, the door snapped open at his approach, shut firmly and hissed into a seal behind him. Sheriff Jacob Keller mobilized his troops. The very first thing he did was hit the panic button -- it was red, plastic, big around as a tea saucer, wall mounted, with the word PANIC in bright yellow letters on its smooth, domed surface: it was the General Quarters alert, followed by his confident voice chanted into the old-fashioned, curly-cord mic: "General Quarters, General Quarters, this is not a drill, this is not a drill." He turned to his screen, fingers pattering quickly on the screen. The temblor was sizable, significant, damaging: Jacob ordered diagnostics on the underground railroad, on the honeycomb of tunnels that connected the Mars colony underground: he considered rooms and hallways were fabricated by melting rock, compressing it with a triple-layered honeycomb structure, suitable for holding incredible weight: melted substrate was compressed to impossible degrees, rendering the material far denser than its original state. Between density and the honeycomb structure, their corridors, the train's tunnel, their living, meeting, working and educational structures, were proof against stresses, intentionally strong enough to withstand serious tectonic activity. Jacob considered the increase in stress on particular sections. "Sector Seven, Sector Seven. All hands, avoid corridor seven two five one, structural failure imminent, stand by containment fields. Subhabitat seven romeo, evacuate, evacuate, evacuate. Damage control to sector seven, stand by for catastrophic structural failure." Littlejohn ran as only an adrenalized ten year old can run. The mine's entrance was abandoned, the duty shift having already evacuated to reinforced shelter. He climbed into the shuttle, powered up, his wrist-unit bypassing all lockout authorizations. He keyed in a command and two troop carriers were mag-levitated into engagement behind him. If I can find them, Littlejohn thought, I'll have to get them out safely. His young hands closed on man-sized controls, he reached his ten year old foot down and mashed the rectangular throttle pedal. Lights blazed from the yellow-and-black-striped, locomotive-shaped shuttle, and he shot down the tunnel. "Mine Rescue shuttle, Sheriff One," Jacob called, frowning at his screen. Littlejohn appeared -- of all the people on Mars, Littlejohn was absolutely not one he'd expected to see. "Cave-in down here," Littlejohn said, young eyes intent on the cone of concentrated light shoving the dark away from

A CLEVER FAKE A very proper young woman in a McKenna gown sat behind the Judge's desk, in his private car. Her spectacles were halfway down her nose, as was proper for the era; she was reading a small book, holding it daintily in gloved hands, the very image of period-authentic femininity. She did not look up as she heard the skeleton key thrust into the lock, as she heard the greased lock mechanism turn, as she heard the door open, as sunlight brightened the private car's interior. Father, mother, and active young son waited for the uniformed porter to swing the door wide open, then step back: they advanced, tentatively, looking around at velvet curtains and pillows, at the tidy sofa that doubled as a narrow bed, and they stared openly at the young woman seated behind the desk, appearing as much a part of the furnishings as the ornate crown molding or scrollwork window trim. The mother's expression betrayed her surprise. She'd expected the interior of the private car to smell ... musty, dusty, disused, stale -- she'd expected dust, neglect, frayed cushions, faded upholstery. She was not expecting it to look ... well, clean. Her son raised a phone, turned, grinned at his image on the screen, thumbed a selfie. Sheriff Linn Keller rode as he always did -- as if he were part of his stallion, as if he and the horse were one creature -- he touched his hat-brim when the tourist family looked like they had a question, and the delighted little boy caressed Apple-horse's shoulder as his mother asked whether the Sheriff ever heard stories or rumors of someplace in town being haunted. "Yes, ma'am," he said, "this whole territory is haunted" -- he thrust a chin at the Judge's private car, with a boxcar separating it from the passenger car -- "we have to keep the Judge's car locked to keep ghost hunters out. It got so bad they'd try holding a seance on the floor and spill wax on the rugs, they stole lamps and doorknobs, so we had to give up and just lock it." The tourists, of course, wished to see inside, and they were only a few steps from where they could buy tickets for the seasonal train rides so popular with visitors: the Sheriff leaned down to speak quietly with conductor and porter, who each nodded, and so it was that an adventurous little family from back East was given access to the Honorable Judge Donald Hostetler's private railcar. When the train pulled out, the Sheriff and his stallion were in the stock car: first run of the day was to Carbon Hill, where the Sheriff had business. The family rode in the private car and were soon joined by the Sheriff: for some odd reason, they did not feel comfortable addressing the silent, very proper young woman in the McKenna gown, seated behind the Judge's desk, but the Sheriff brought an boyishly engaging grin with him, and soon he was being asked about the history of the area they'd be visiting. "Carbon Hill," the Sheriff explained, "had a minor boom in coal mining. It's wet coal, brown coal, there's still a very little mining going on, but not much. Carbon has been restored for the tourist trade, and yes" -- he winked at the mother -- "they have ghosts." "What kind of ghosts?" the little boy asked, big eyed and eager. "Nothing scary," the Sheriff said. "My wife met one over there when she was in high school." "She did?" The Sheriff nodded. Shelly Crane folded her arms and glared out the door. She could barely see out the barred window of the iron box that served as Carbon Hill's jail. Railroads of the era would donate a metal box to its whistle stop towns, to serve as the town jail: the door was either all barred, or was boilerplate sheet metal with a barred window. There was commonly one barred window toward the back, somewhere high above the hole in the floor that served as the communal toilet. Dark, airless, roasting in summer and freezing in winter, this small prison was too much bother to break up and haul off for scrap, and so it still stood when Shelly made the mistake of getting in a car with a few other cheerleaders and the high school quarterback. They came over to Carbon "so I can be alone with my girl," and when the jock tried to put the moves on Shelly, she backhanded him a good one. He grabbed her by her ponytails, dragged her out of the car, shoved her in the old cell, shouldered the door shut -- he looked down, found the old padlock, ran it through the staple, pushed it shut -- he glared at her, went back to the convertible, and Shelly was left, alone, locked in the reportedly haunted prison box as a carload of classmates she thought were her friends, laughed and drove away. She did not waste time or energy shaking a solid door; she lacked a source of light, she lacked any tool to help herself escape. She listened to the silence, turned, looked across the interior, eyes busy. No ghosts, she thought, listening to the night, listening hopefully for the sound of a car stopping, turning around, returning. A half hour later she gave up listening. She glared out the little window, wondering how long it would take someone to come over here. Nobody lived in Carbon anymore, there were no businesses -- she'd heard talk of restoring a few buildings for the tourist trade. Someone will come, she thought, closing her crossed-arm hands into fists. She heard hoofbeats, lifted her head curiously -- A horse? She stared, mouth open, as a man in a black suit, a man with a curled handlebar of an iron grey mustache, came down the street, his Appaloosa stallion at a spanking trot. She recognized the man. It must've been the light -- no, not the light -- that's not -- Willamina is Sheriff. That looks like her twin brother Will. I never saw Will in a black suit before. Or a Stetson! She watched him stop, saw him turn his spotty horse and she felt him look at her. His eyes were shadowed by his hat brim -- she could not see his eyes at all, but then moonlight is a tricky thing -- he rode up to the box, dismounted, reached in and gripped her hand gently, and said in a deep and reassuring voice, "I'll bet you'd like to get out of there." Shelly swallowed, nodded, not trusting her voice, grateful for the feel of his strong, reassuring, callused hand. He found the key -- she told him Everett, the football jock, picked up the lock from the ground and locked her in because she slapped him for being improper -- the pale eyed man with the iron grey mustache bent and she heard the swish of leaves brushed aside -- He straightened, she heard the sound of a lock releasing, he drew the door open for her. "Folks tell me I'm just the very image of the second Sheriff of Firelands County," Linn said. "Just between us here and the fence post, I still think 'twas the ghost of Old Pale Eyes himself that let my wife out of that iron box." "Did you ever take her back to the box ... you know, just to look at it?" Linn gave the tourist family his very best, big-eyed, Innocent Expression: "I'd not dare," he said, fabricated dread exaggerating the moment, "she'd likely pick the thing up and beat me about the head and shoulders with it!" When they arrived in Carbon, the Sheriff was met by a grinning boy running out from behind the Saloon with a bail-capped bottle, sweating-cold: he ran up to the Sheriff, who thanked him gravely, flipped the bail and tilted the bottle up, draining it: he thanked the urchin, turned and looked to the other side of the street. "That young fella," he said, "would likely be pleased with a good cold Sarsaparilla." He flipped the barefoot urchin a coin and a wink, lifted his reins and rode on down the street, and a delighted boy from back East happily accepted the bail-capped bottle of genuine Western Sody Pop. He watched as the boy picked up a loose board from the Boardwalk and carefully slipped the Sheriff's empty bottle under the weathered plank, set the board precisely back into place. When the Eastern boy was done with his cold Sarsaparilla, he dawdled back from his parents, turned and tried to pull up the weather-bowed board -- only the boardwalk here was not loose, it was not bowed nor weathered, it was new construction, and solidly screwed down. He set the empty beside a porch post, ran on swift-sneakered feet back to his parents, who were looking at the restored Marshal's Office. An Eastern boy submitted a photograph and won an award. It was taken in a private railcar. An interesting photograph, it had a book, suspended barely above the desktop, as if being held by ghostly hands: a pair of woman's dainty, round-lensed spectacles hung in midair, perfectly aligned, as if worn halfway down a spectral nose. But of course this photo had to be a clever fake. We all know there's no such thing as ghosts.

IT WAS NOT AXLE GREASE When an enemy commander looks through binoculars and sees self propelled artillery being driven over the ridgeline -- deliberately skylining itself, intending that it should be seen -- the commander is going to be reconsidering his life's choices. When a high-school wrestler steps into the ring, and opposite him, an opponent steps in that has him by a head and a hundred pounds, the atmosphere can change, and not for the better. When skeptical townsmen and minor politicians saw three women file into the meeting-room, their persuasive and well-practiced arguments they intended to present, suddenly became much less persuasive. When Shelly Keller, in her military-creased blue uniform shirt with the medical wings on one pocket flap, the shining name tag on the other, came out of the anteroom door and stepped behind the podium set on the table in the front of Council's chamber, they expected this: elected and appointed officials, mostly folk with a small amount of authority, mentally clutched their arguments like something precious. The point was petty, but for whatever reason, it became a sticking-point, and it was about to be shattered. They expected this Earth instructor to present herself and argue in favor of certain apparatus on their emergency squads. They did not expect a slightly taller woman in a white nurse's dress and winged cap, who emerged from the anteroom on silent, crepe-soled tread, turning to stand on Shelly's right. Nor did they expect the Confederacy's best-known diplomat in a velvet gown and ornate picture hat, to emerge from the anteroom, to flow with decorum and beauty, and stand on Shelly's left. They anticipated an Earth instructor. The absolutely did not expect this level of diplomatic firepower. "You're here to argue against our specifications," Shelly began without preamble. "Captain Crane, if you please, sir." A tall, flat-waisted man stepped out of the anteroom as well: he joined his wife behind the podium, assumed an easy parade-rest, waited. "We specify that every squad has a power lift," Shelly said, her voice carrying well and clearly, "and that every ambulance cot is powered as well. Let me show you why." She stepped back, took the Captain's arm, walked him around in front of the tables across the front of the Town Council's chambers, appropriated for this meeting of several districts. Shelly wore a stethoscope around her neck, as did her daughter, still beside the podium. "You are objecting to the cost of these power lifts," Shelly said. "First of all, your argument is that they represent an unnecessary expense." Her smile was thin. "Your argument is invalid. You are not paying for their purchase, you are not paying for their maintenance, you are not paying for their replacement." She saw surprised expressions -- either someone fed these representatives a bill of goods, or they were exercising a petty authority and trying to throw their weight around, to the detriment of their emergency services. "In the bad old days, ambulance cots were raised, lowered, height-adjusted and placed in vehicles, by" -- she turned sideways, flexed an arm, displaying an impressive amount of feminine bicep -- "good old Armstrong Power!" She spun the stethoscope from around her neck, attached a small square device just above its double bell. "After years of hoisting some unholy tonnage on these Type 30 Back Breakers, this is what happens." She squatted, wrapped one hand around the inside of the Captain's knee, placed the bell of her steth against the other side of his knee joint. The Captain did a slow, deep-knee bend. Men cringed to hear the cartilaginous sounds transmitted to hidden, but very efficient, speakers, thanks to the small square device on her stethoscope -- something like a stalk of celery being twisted in a bowl of crispy cereal just doused with milk. "I won't begin to detail the damage it does to the back," she said, "even with proper lifting techniques, after years in the profession, it has its ill effects. Having a powered cot and a powered squad lift is necessary to the continued long life of your emergency responders' knees and backs." The Captain looked down, winked solemnly, then turned and resumed his position beside the ladies behind the table. "Now." Shelly clapped her hands briskly together, scrubbing her palms enthusiastically as she smiled, bright-eyed. "I am willing to entertain your arguments as to why you do not want these injury prevention devices on your emergency response vehicles." Angela raised a hand as a screen hummed down from the ceiling -- a screen nobody knew was there -- a screen installed quickly, quietly, while everyone was filing into the chamber, shaking hands and reinforcing their bureaucratic self-importance. "This," Angela said, "is one of the most recent surgeries I assisted on. It is a joint replacement. The patient's knee was beyond salvage, thanks to abusive levels of over work." She smiled as men looked away, suddenly uncomfortable at the sight of a human knee joint being surgically opened. "It is a maxim in medicine that prevention is far cheaper and far less work than treatment and rehabilitation," Angela continued. "I am very interested in preventing operations of this kind from becoming necessary." She pressed a control; the screen blanked, hummed back into a hidden recess overhead. Fitz was watching remotely -- he'd set up a laptop on the kitchen counter there at station, the entire Irish Brigade was gathered behind him, coffee in one hand, something edible in the other -- their local bakery's doughnuts were legendary, but Cookie just mixed something with cream cheese, diced onion, diced garlic, spices of several kinds and just a trace of peanut butter: an entire bundle of celery was dissected, laid out and spread full for the Irish Brigade's taste test, and at the moment, quite frankly, as they watched Shelly and Cap and the deep-knee-bend, as they then heard the lovely Madam Ambassador, a vision of beauty and persuasion, speak with a quiet, good-natured authority, their celery stalks could have been puttied full of axle grease and they honestly would not have noticed. Cookie mixed up another batch of whatever that cream cheese stuff was, and laid out a plate, dumped out an entire box of crackers: the Irish Brigade laughed, swore cheerfully, started to spread oval saltines with Cookie's creation, and when the Iris opened and Shelly and the Captain stepped out onto the apparatus floor, a cheer went up, the persuasive pair was swarmed, Shelly was hugged, hoist, hand-kissed, twirled like the dancer she was: the Captain was glad-handed, back-pounded, cheerfully handed a ribbon decorated cane with a squeeze-bulb horn duct taped to it and a ribbon-dangling file card marked CERTIFIED CRIPPLED UP OLD GEEZER. In general, the Irish Brigade rejoiced that another bunch of self important folk had been disabused of the notion that they could micromanage where they had no expertise, that their friends and colleagues on other worlds were spared bad backs and bad knees, and when they taste tested whatever that stuff was Cookie just mixed up and they spread thick on crackers and topped with sliced olives, all hands agreed -- from White Hat clear down to New Boots -- that things turned out pretty well.