Upon a Sea of Stars (51 page)

“The eating irons?”

You’ve seen me using chopsticks—but the Werrississians use a sort of
single
chopstick. They come in three varieties. There’s what is, in effect, just a sharp-pointed skewer, quite good for spearing chunks of meat or whatever. Then there’s a long handled affair with a sort of small, shallow spoon on the end of it. You can eat a bowl of soup with the thing, but it’s a long process and, if you hold it properly, unless you have a very steady hand most of the fluid food finishes up in your lap. And the last one’s a real beauty. At the end of it is an auger with a left-handed thread. And it’s used only for a very special dish.

You didn’t like Keiko’s
sushi
. It’s just as well that she didn’t prepare
sashimi
for us. It’s also raw fish, but even more so, if you know what I mean. You don’t? Well, the fish is only stunned, not killed, before being prepared. While you’re picking the bite-sized pieces off the skeleton it comes back to life and twitches its fins and
looks
at you . . . I came quite to like it while I was stationed on Mikasa Base for a while; the junior officers’ mess, where I took most of my meals, specialized in a traditionally Japanese cuisine. So, having eaten and enjoyed
sashimi
, I was quite able to cope with
leeleeoosa
. It’s a sort of thick worm. Alive and wriggling. The skin’s rather tough and rubbery but it tends to dissolve when you
chew it, this process being initiated by the sauce, mildly acid in flavour, into which you dip it.

So you have these . . . worms swimming around in a bowl of tepid water. You select your next victim. You jab, then twist left-handed. You dip in the sauce, bring it to your mouth and chew. The flavor? Not bad. Rather like rare steak, with a touch of garlic.

Fortunately I’d been able to get in some practice before the first official dinner at which
leeleeoosa
was served. Maggie had done her homework before we came to Werrississa. She, like me, enjoyed exotic foods. The ship’s artificers, acting on her instructions, had run up a few sets of working tools. Of course, we weren’t able to test our skills on real live and wriggling
leeleeoosa
until after we’d set down and Miss Hayashi had been able to do some shopping. But we’d sort of trained on
sukiyaki
, the strips of meat bobbing around in boiling water made a fair substitute for the real thing. It was the lefthanded thread on the skewer that took the most getting used to.

Then HIMS
William Wallace
, one of the
big
ships of the Navy of the Empire of Waverley, dropped in. Her classification was more or less—more rather than less—of our Constellation Class battle cruisers. Her commanding officer was Captain Sir Hamish McDiarmid, Knight of the Order of the Golden Thistle &c, &c
and &c.
Like me, he was showing the flag.
His
flag. He had a far bigger ship to wear it on. But she was a warship, not a survey ship. She was long on specialists in the martial arts but short on scientists. Ethologists especially. Nonetheless, I was to discover later, he had done some research into local lore before inflicting his presence on the Werrississians.

But national pride influenced him. The kilt, in a variety of tartans, is worn throughout the Empire on all occasions, by both men and women, with uniform and with civilian clothing. Longish, heavy kilts are for winter, short, lightweight kilts are for summer. Traditionally nothing is worn under these garments—all well and good when they’re long and heavy but liable to offend the prudish when they’re short and light.

Not that the Werrississians were prudish. It was just that, as far as they were concerned, there were things that are done and things that just definitely aren’t done. They were prepared to tolerate outworlders and their odd ways but they didn’t have to like them when such odd ways were offensive. I was grateful to Maggie for her good advice. Here was (comparatively) little, lightly armed
Seeker
whose people were happily conforming, and there was the huge
William Wallace
whose men strode arrogantly along the avenues of the city flaunting their bare knees—and more on a breezy day. They realized that the natives liked us while thinking that
they
were something that the cat had dragged in in an off
moment. They resented this. They openly jeered at our women in their long gowns, carrying their parasols, calling them Madam Butterfly. I heard that they were referring to me as Lieutenant Pinkerton . . .

“
Who were they, when they were up and dressed? “ asked Kitty.

“Two characters in an opera who were dressed more or less as we were dressed,” said Grimes. “Very unsuitably
—
as far as Pinkerton was concerned—for the climate.”

But, as I said, Sir Hamish had done some research before his landing on Werrississa. I learned later that he had earned quite a reputation as a gourmet. He had even been known to sneer at the Waverley national dish, the haggis. He had, as I had done, insisted that all his people familiarize themselves with local dishes and eating implements. They even carried their own working tools with them, tucked into their sporrans, when they went ashore. It was reported to me by some of my officers, who had dined in the same restaurants, that the
William Wallace
personnel were quite skilful with these, even with the
skirroo
, the implement used when eating
leeleeoosa.
Yet it wasn’t enough. They might eat like civilized people but they dressed like barbarians. We both ate and dressed properly.

And yet we were all members of the same race, whereas the Werrississians, for all their similarities, weren’t. There had to be some fraternization between the two crews. I invited Sir Hamish to take lunch with me aboard
Seeker
—and, unlike some people whom I will not name, he thoroughly enjoyed his
sushi
. He told me that he was planning a dinner aboard
William Wallace
for local dignitaries and would be pleased if I would attend together with three of my senior officers. I was happy to accept the invitation. Then—we’d had quite a few drinks and were getting quite matey—I asked him if he’d be serving haggis, piped in the traditional way. He wasn’t offended. He laughed and said, “Not likely, Grimes. I ken well that you people are putting on a big act o’ being civilized while we’re just hairy-kneed barbarians. But I’ll demonstrate that, when it comes to civilized living, we’re as good as anybody. It’ll be a Werrississian menu, prepared by my chefs . . .”

“Dress?” I asked.

“Formal, o’ course. Ye’ll be wearin’ your dinner uniforms. We’ll be wearin’ ours. An’ we’ll be cooler than you’ll be—from the waist down, anyhow. My private dining room will have to conform to local ideas of comfort, temperaturewise . . .”

I was rather sorry then that I couldn’t back out, but it was too late. Later, when I passed the word around, nobody was keen to accompany me. At last Maggie said that she’d come to hold my hand. The other two
victims were MacMorris, my chief engineer, and Marlene Deveson, one of the scientists. A geologist, as a matter of fact. Not that it matters.

Then the Big Day came round. Or the Big Night. We met in the air-conditioned comfort of my day cabin for a drink before walking the short distance to Sir Hamish’s ship. We were all tarted up in our best mess dress, tropical. It would still be too hot for comfort with the white bum-freezer over the starched white shirt, the long, black trousers. The two ladies were slightly better off, with high-collared, epauletted, long-sleeved shirts only on top of their ankle-length black skirts. At least they were not required to wear jackets. Maggie looked good, as she always did, no matter what she was or wasn’t wearing. Marlene looked a mess. She was a short girl, fat rather than plump. Her round face was already sweaty. Her hair, greasily black, was a tangle. Two of her shirt buttons had come undone.

We allowed ourselves one small whisky each. Sir Hamish would be serving Scotch and it wouldn’t do to mix drinks. Then Maggie made a check of Marlene’s appearance, frowned, took her into my bathroom to make repairs and adjustments. When they came out shirt buttons had been done up and hair combed and brushed into a semblance of order.

We took the elevator down to the airlock, walked slowly down the ramp.
William Wallace
was a great, dark, turreted tower in ominous silhouette against the city lights. (Sir Hamish did not believe on wasting money on floodlighting, even when he was showing the Thistle Flag.) It was a hot night. I’d started perspiring already. I had little doubt that the others were doing likewise. We made our way slowly across the apron. The heat of the day was beating up from the concrete.

We climbed the ramp to
William Wallace
’s after airlock. The Imperial Marine on duty—white, sleeveless shirt over a kilt with black and red tartan, sturdy legs in calf-length boots—saluted smartly. I replied. Inside the chamber we were received by a junior officer, clad as was the Marine but with black and gold tartan and gold-braided shoulder boards on his shirt. More saluting. We were ushered into the elevator, carried swiftly up to Sir Hamish’s suite.

He received us personally. He looked very distinguished. From the waist up he was dressed as I was—although he had more gold braid on his epaulettes than I did, more brightly ribboned miniature medals on the left breast of his mess jacket. And he was wearing a kilt, of course, summer weight and length, in the Imperial Navy’s black and gold tartan. His long socks were black, with gold at the turnover. There were gold buckles on his highly polished black shoes.

And he, I was pleased to see, was feeling the heat too. His craggy face under the closely cropped white hair was flushed and shining with perspiration. But he was jovial enough.

He exclaimed, “Come in, come in! This is Liberty Hall. Ye can spit on the mat an’ call the haggis a bastard!”

“Are ye givin’ us haggis, then, sir?” asked MacMorris eagerly.

“No. ‘twas just an expression of your captain’s that I modified to suit
my
ship.
We
don’t carry tabbies in the Waverley Navy.”

Both Maggie and Marlene gave him dirty looks.

“Tabbies?” asked Kitty Kelly.

“In the old days of passenger carrying surface ships on Earth they used to call stewardesses that. Today all female spacegoing personnel, regardless of rank or department, are called tabbies. But not to their faces.”

“I should hope not.”

We were the first guests to arrive. We were taken into Sir Hamish’s sitting room—he had quarters that would have made a Survey Service admiral green with envy—introduced to his senior officers, plied with excellent Scotch. Then the young officer who had received us on board ushered in the native guests. There were six of them, three male and three female. They looked pale wraiths. They accepted drinks from the mini-kilted mess steward although they regarded his hairy knees with distaste. Rather pointedly they made polite conversation only with those of us from
Seeker
, we were properly dressed even though our hosts were not. Their command of standard English was quite good.

A skirling of bagpipes came over the intercom. I assumed that it was the mess call. I was right. Sir Hamish led the way into his dining room. The long table, with its surface of gleaming tiles, each with a different tartan design, was already set. Sir Hamish’s artificers had done him proud, were doing us all proud. At each place were the native eating utensils in polished bronze—
slup, splik
and
skirroo
. There were the bronze wine flasks, the cups made from the same alloy. There were place cards, with names both in English and the flowing Werrississian script.

Sir Hamish took the head of the table, of course, with a local lady on his right and her “social function husband” on his left. (The Werrississians have a multiplicity of wives and husbands—mates for all occasions.) I sat below the native woman and Maggie below the man. Then another native couple, then Marlene and MacMorris, then the last Werrississian pair. Below them was the covey of Imperial Navy commanders—(E), (N), (C), (S) and (G)—all looking rather peeved at having to sit below the salt.

Sir Hamish’s mess waiters were well trained, efficient. They were drilled in local customs. First they poured each of us a goblet of the
sweet, sticky wine—it was, as it should have been, at room temperature but I’d have preferred it chilled—and there was a round of toasts. We toasted the Emperor James XIV of Waverley, whose gold-framed, purple-draped portrait was on the bulkhead behind Sir Hamish’s chair. The gentlemen toasted the ladies. The ladies toasted the gentlemen. We all toasted our host. By this time it was necessary to bring in a fresh supply of the bronze flasks. Unluckily it was still the same sickly but potent tipple. I looked rather anxiously at MacMorris. He didn’t have a very good head for drinks and was liable after only one too many to insist on dancing a Highland fling. But I needn’t have worried about him. He was a Scot more than he was a Terran and it was obvious that he, aboard a warship owned by the only essentially Scottish spacefaring power, was determined to be on his very best behavior. It was an effort but he was capable of making it. The toasting over, he was taking merely token sips from his cup.

I looked at Marlene. I knew little about her drinking capacity and behavior. What I saw worried me. She was downing goblet after goblet of the wine as fast as the steward could refill them. Her hair was becoming unfixed. The black, floppy bow at the neck of her shirt was now lopsided. One button on the front of the garment was undone.

The first course came in.

I’ve forgotten its native name but it was, essentially, bite-sized cubes of meat, fish, vegetables and other things coated in a savoury batter and deep fried. For these we used the
spliks,
the long, sharp skewers. The Werrississian guests made complimentary noises and, as was their custom, ate rapidly, their implements clicking on the china plates with their thistle pattern. Sir Hamish and his officers ate almost as fast and so did we
Seeker
people—with the exception of Marlene. It seemed to me that about half of her meal was going on to the table and the other half on to her lap, and from there to the deck. I was very sorry that Maggie wasn’t sitting beside me instead of opposite. Had I been next to her I could have whispered to her, begged her to do something, anything, about her fellow scientific officer before she disgraced us.