Book 1: Flight of the Armada Chapter 2

Michael Sheldon called his father and told him some friends needed to stay at the old ranch. "They lost everything in a storm, Dad," Michael lied. "They really need help. They'll keep up the place and probably even make some improvements."

Darryl Sheldon agreed to the arrangement. Michael was a practical man, a son in whom anyone would take pride, and Darryl was pleased Mike was so considerate of those less fortunate than he. The matter was a simple one, and Darryl had more on his mind than Mike's luckless friends. Michael’s brother Derrick never did like the ranch and said he felt sorry for anyone so bad off that they would want to live there.

Michael had no idea how to go about contacting anyone who could help the new arrivals. Ordinarily he would have gone to some authority or the military, but a strange chill seized him the moment he reached for the phone to call the number in the phone book. Every time he reached for it, a strange buzzing sound filled his ears, and he was suddenly consumed with doubt.

The military was jealous of anyone who had better weaponry and even though the Thuringi were strong, there were only six of them. Sheer numbers might overcome them. There was no telling what kind of experiments would be done on them and like so many other unsolved mysteries, such experiments could be done in secret. Michael might never see his new friends again.

“I will just have to think about this for a while,” he decided aloud to himself at last. “I do not want to call just anyone, for sure not the military. I’ll give them some time to rest up and then I’ll figure out what to do.”

He did not have the luxury of time. His doctoral defense was fast approaching, and an offer from a private school in Texas for headmaster was entirely dependent upon his earning that doctorate.

The Thuringi cleaned the interior of the house and scraped the peeling walls until they were smooth. Gareth and Stuart got the water well in working order and they all quickly figured out the fixtures of the bathroom. It was a fundamental bathroom with a sink, a toilet, and a large claw-footed tub. The toilet was primitive, but they had faced far worse conditions on other worlds.

The two broken chairs they found were a challenge. They decided to encase the frames in crystallized sand and fibers using one of their laser pistols. They needed the frames; Darien sat on an all-crystal chair to test it and ended up on the floor a split second later, surrounded by clear glittering shards.

They cleaned two old mattresses found in the bedrooms as well as they could. The mattresses were re-stuffed with dry grass from the nearby fields. One mattress went in Carrol’s bedroom, the other in Stuart and Darien’s room. Darien preferred to sleep on a floor pallet made from flight blankets, as there was only room for Stuart on the full-size mattress.

Glendon and Gareth fashioned hammocks in their rooms. After testing them out, the others agreed these were probably the most comfortable of all. Darien made one for himself and put his pallet in that. Brent took command of the bathtub and filled the porcelain fixture with warm water. He did not care if the water was cold the next morning. Brent was comfortable at last. The only inconvenience was his being rousted out of ‘bed’ early every morning so others could use the room.

Carrol surveyed her room from the doorway with satisfaction. The walls were covered with a thin coat of white paint from a bucket found on the back porch, and the mattress sported blankets from her ship. A small bag of clothing neatly hung in the closet and a tapered bottle with flowers and water in it sat on the windowsill. Beside the bed on a little table was a time-worn book.

Gareth stole up behind her and rested his chin on her shoulder. “Are We pleased with Our royal quarters, Your Nibs?” he asked in his playful, upper-octave “Royal We” voice he occasionally used to imitate the lordly nobles of Thuringa.

“Yes, We are. We especially appreciate the decorative flowers.” Without turning around, she reached up to ruffle his hair.

“We thought We might like Our offering,” he said in a normal voice as he placed his hands on her waist. He pressed his mouth against her shoulder, not quite a kiss but certainly a sign of affection.

“None of that,” Glendon called from down the hall. “I am still your Naradi, Princess, and responsible for you to your father.”

“Are you my father, as well?” Gareth shot back.

“If I have to be.”

Gareth reluctantly removed his hands. “He is more like a wizened old grandmother,” he muttered.

“I heard that,” Glendon intoned as he entered the room.

“So, you like the flowers?” Gareth asked Carrol.

“Yes, they are wonderful. Where did you find them?”

“Why, they are everywhere you look. Those little blue fuzzy ones are right next to the strands of the prickly wire fence. The yellow ones with the black centers are out along the front near the road.”

“They are so beautiful; all the little petals look like little fingers.”

“Even better are the ones at the corner of the house.” Seeing that neither Carrol nor Glendon recognized the reference, he led them outside to an overgrown domestic rose bush. He carefully snapped thorns from a flowering stem and cut it free with his hand knife for her.

“Oh my! Smell this, it is grand!” she declared. The men agreed it was a fantastic scent, so Glendon helped Gareth gather more blooms. The roses reminded them of Thuringi scannia in appearance, but the scent was different, thick and rich on these Earthian flowers.

“I wonder what Janis and Echo will say when they see these,” Glendon mused. “Why, I can just see them both planning flowerbeds for when we reach Farcourt. I think Echo has the same love of flowers as her mother.”

“Likely she will have all manner of young men bringing her flowers on their own accord,” Gareth pointed out. “I look forward to watching you and Janis’s struggle to keep them at bay.”

“You saw her at the cadet review during Festival,” Glendon said proudly. “I daresay she will be able to keep them at arm's throw distance all by herself.”

They sat on the steps of the porch and Gareth looked all around. “This place reminds me of my boyhood in Carzon,” he said with a trace of wistfulness in his voice. He gestured to the wheat field across the road from the ranch. “We had a field near our house like that, and alongside the house yard was a pasture where we kept our gakkis. There were little flowers everywhere but nothing quite like these.”

The other three Thuringi came out to join them. Darien sprawled out on his back on the porch and pillowed the back of his head with his hands. Stuart sat on the porch swing they found in the barn, repaired, and put back in place.

Brent went out into the yard, where he turned on the water hose to soak his head and neck. He asked Gareth, “Was Carzon the city in the middle of the Thuringa land mass?” Like many Aquatics, Brent little attention to the interior of the land.

“It was near the center. Just a village, really, but it was a wonderful place.” Gareth turned to Carroll. “After the Massic Surrell your parents called me in for questions. I suppose they wanted to know more about this odd man who fought for their daughter’s honor. In my non-too-genteel way, I told them exactly what I thought about a lot of things, especially what I thought about Thuringi clergy. Your mother is grace itself; she did not faint once.”

“What do you think of the clergy?” Carrol asked.

“Well, I recall I said something about our local Carzon bishop being a passage-quoting bastard.” The collective gasp echoed in the still of the porch. “They asked me about my large family and what became of them, so I told about each one, and how the bishop told my father my brothers’ accidental deaths were punishment for Mother and him for having so many children. I do not like the clergy. I prefer to simply accept what challenges God puts before me and work them out without high-collar interpretation. Your father seemed to like that.”

“That is not much of a surprise. He likes ingenuity under fire. How did you get from Carzon to Arne?” Stuart asked.

“After the boys and Father passed away, we stayed on the farm for a while. When I joined the Air Command Auxiliary, I made Mother and Clive move to Gallina with me. He had Bran Fitt as Father had, and the sea air did him good. Pattie married, had a pair of children, and moved to Arne. Then I was transferred to Arne with Maranta, so Mother and Clive stayed in Gallina. When I went home on leave occasionally, I brought the general with me. Mother was very fond of him. She made bannon soup for us and liked to tease him about—”

Gareth stopped, and turned to Carrol with a grin. “She teased him about a little officer he fancied but about whom he never mentioned details.” Carrol shrugged with a smile and bumped her shoulder against his, as if to admit she had been that officer. “Here was the great mighty Maranta Shanaugh of the Royal Thuringa Air Command, easily brought to a bashful blush by the one woman who could scold or tease him as a mother would. She was not even as old as he, but her widow’s heart was much older than twice his age. She treated every man like the sons she should have raised to manhood.”

“I imagine she was quite the character if her eldest son is any indication,” Darien mused. “Did she ever marry again, or is that a foolish question?”

“After Father passed away, she refused the very idea. She just laughed at would-be suitors, rather harshly too. Then Clive was called back to Arne when his theories about Farcourt garnered interest, and Mother came with him. The General once made the mistake of introducing her to some officer friend of his, and she gave them both an exceedingly difficult time.”

Stuart broke in, “I recall a story Ganson Renaugh once told of a perfectly enchanting woman who spurned him so thoroughly, he was lovesick for months. Perhaps it was her. He said she was only as tall as a minute and wore rings on every finger.”

“That was Mother,” Gareth agreed. “She always wore her wedding ring and a ring for every child.”

Darien counted silently and said, “I thought there were only six of you children.”

“She lost one before birth, but she counted every baby she conceived.”

Darien rose and went inside. Night was falling, and the stars came out in the darkening star. Darien emerged from the house with two glasses of milk and handed one to Gareth. “To Maribel and Denys Duncan,” Darien toasted, “and the answer as to the source of their eldest son’s remarkable attributes.”

“Thank you, Your Naughtiness; I think,” Gareth replied.

Darien let out a hearty laugh. “It is a compliment. For now we know where you get your ability to toil for hours, your incessant optimism in the face of the impossible, and your instinctive catering to our sister, Her Most Ardent Nibs.”

“You should have seen me during consue, I was the Hack and Slash variety of fighter. I decided to serve my king with a wrench and a spanner rather than insult the Air Command by flailing about like a gakki colt,” Gareth admitted to their riotous amusement. He offered Carrol a sip of milk and she smiled and shook her head. He shrugged and took another sip. Glendon saw the exchange and went in to get drinks for the rest of them.

Father was right about one thing, Carrol thought as she watched Gareth out of the corner of her eye as he looked out over the lawn, unconcerned about his actions. Gareth honestly did not know when he made a social blunder. To the high born of Thuringa, a man did not publicly offer a woman a sip from his glass unless they were married, or he wanted to be considered by all as her lover. To farmer’s son Gareth, offering her a drink was simply a gesture of sharing. Glendon brought out four more glasses and they all toasted the beautiful evening weather.

Brent decided the stock pond was too dirty for comfort, and the ‘cabrett’ often wandered up to drink from the water tank. The Aquatic did not care to lay in the same water from which large noisesome creatures drank and spilled drool from their mouths back into the tank. As he sat submerged, he watched the cow cautiously extend its head toward him and lowed mournfully, its open mouth like a gaping maw to the alien. Brent Ardenne, who rarely ventured into the interior of the Thuringa continent, was completely unnerved by an airbreathing beast of another world. He scrambled out of the tank as quickly as he could and hurried to the house.

“I am going back to the Great Water, Stuart!” he half-suggested, half-demanded. Stuart agreed he should, unaware of the reason behind the statement.

Glendon accompanied Brent in his own ship, and they took a quick orbital equatorial tour of the planet out of curiosity. Brent chose the turquoise waters and white beaches of the Caribbean to stop. Glendon stood guard on the empty stretch of sand while Brent stripped off his clothing and plunged into the water. He explored the underwater area for so long, Glendon paced nervously all along the shoreline, concerned that something was amiss. But Brent treated every ocean creature as a potential predator and he cautiously explored underwater wrecks. It was a strange world and there were sights and sounds that even the Aquatic Brent had never seen before.

When Brent re-emerged, he figured he was due for a good scolding from the Airman and apologized. “It took me longer than I thought it would; I am still tired from our journey,” he admitted. “Perhaps I am not quite ready for this yet.”

It was unusual for Brent Ardenne to admit to any weakness especially in the water, so Glendon decided not to give him the lecture he had prepared. They returned to the ranch mid-afternoon by darting in and out of cloud formations.

Their ships all needed to be hidden. One fit inside the barn and two fit in the little fenced corral next to it. Those were hidden by pieces of corrugated sheet metal. The other three were covered over with cut branches next to a rusty metal object near the back fence.

Gareth found an old push mower and wondered about its engine until he realized it never had one. It was a grass cutter, he exclaimed to the others, and proceeded to cut the grass all around the interior yard. It would indicate to others someone lived there and therefore deter idle wanderers. They took turns mowing after they recognized the practicality of clipped foliage around the house.

Darien was especially keen on the idea after he stepped on an animal in the overgrown front yard. The creature screeched, clawed at him, and ran away. He high-stepped his way back to the porch at a dead run, swearing violently with each step. For his part, Stuart stubbed his toe on a rock and fell onto the scratchy bush with fragrant flowers. The Phillipi brothers insisted on a lawn they could all safely traverse.

Once the front and back yards were mowed, they all gathered in the back yard on their third evening on Earth to lie on the ground and look at the starry sky. Glendon and Stuart tried to get their bearings and estimate where the Armada was. Darien watched for meteors with Gareth and Carrol, and Brent enjoyed the last of the milk and admired the shiny sliver of moon. They heard the fall-off sound of a whippoorwill calling out its mournful call, and it fascinated them. Michael had explained some of the sounds of the night, and they tried to imagine what such a creature looked like.

Gareth saw a movement by the corner of the house and softly whispered to the others, “There is a small creature over to the left.” They sat quietly as it approached.

It was smaller than a dallah, light-colored with lean limbs and a curious round little face. Long whiskers emerged from its nose and mouth area and it made a sound much like a baby. Stuart held out his hand, and the creature walked to him and sniffed his fingers. It made another of its baby sounds as rubbed its face against Stuart’s hand, and the Thuringi stroked its soft furry body. The creature arched its back in response to the touch.

“It is quite an agreeable creature,” Stuart told them, and they all took a try at patting it. It made a rumbling sound in its throat. When Brent reached to pat it the animal suddenly became quite eager to sniff his fingers and bit him. Brent withdrew his hand quickly.

“Agreeable to you,” he told Stuart. “I do not believe the thing likes me.” It tried to bite him again, so he swatted it lightly on the nose. It hissed and returned to Stuart’s lap. Digging little claws around on Stuart’s legs, it curled up in a ball and stayed there.

“Fuzzy little thing,” Stuart said with satisfaction. “It is not a dallah, but it is apparently used to people. Domesticated, not wild.”

“Which is probably why it likes you better than Brent,” Darien said with finality. “You are domesticated; Brent is wild.”

Brent raised his glass of luket. “Do not forget that bit of wisdom, either!”

Darien suddenly drew his sword as he leaped to his feet. “What are those lights coming this way?” he whispered hoarsely, and they drew their weapons and got into a defensive circle.

“Where?” Stuart whispered.

“Those, there,” Darien pointed with a slight movement of his sword to tiny little lights that glowed green for a moment, then went out. When the light came on again, it was closer to them than where it was last. Two other little lights appeared in the yard with the first. Slowly, the six Thuringi eased toward them.

“They are little creatures,” Glendon said aloud in surprise, and quickly shut his mouth in alarm. But the little insects continued their lazy pace in the air and ignored the Thuringi completely. Gareth reached out his sword and caught one on its broad side. They examined it curiously before it flew away. Glendon caught one in his hand and said, “It is not attacking me, no sting or anything. They only glow, that is all.”

“Word, look at that,” Darien said as he nodded toward the pasture. Little lights floated all over the field. “They are beautiful.”

“Will this curious world never cease to bring forth surprises?” Stuart wondered.

Michael gathered books and items he thought useful and sent them to the ranch by airmail along with the contact lens. The mailman knocked on the door and after one look at the tall long-haired man with yellow eyes, he turned and fled for his pickup.

Brent picked up the package on the porch and came inside the house. "A man dropped this and ran away. Perhaps it is a gift."

"We have no gift givers here. We know no one but...Michael!" Darien exclaimed.

They eagerly tore the wrapping off the heavy package addressed to Stuart Phillipi, Route 2 Box 459, Iron Post, Oklahoma.

Three cans of peaches were on top, and Glendon whooped in delight at the sight. Tucked beside them were flat paper-wrapped bundles containing smooth brown slabs. Carrol tasted the contents first. They all had a taste after she bounced up and down, her eyes wide and little squeaking noises coming from her smiling lips. It was agreed they must thank Michael profusely for such a delightful treat.

"Word, they have the ability to parse distilled drink into solids," Brent marveled, unaware that chocolate was not alcoholic. To a Thuringi anything sweet had the potential for getting one tipsy.

They tried out the colored eye lens, but Stuart’s eyes could not bear them, and Darien could only wear them for a few minutes before his eyes began to sting the way his brother’s did. Carrol could tolerate them, but it was a constant nuisance. The other three had no problem but instead of blue eyes they had the most startling shade of bright green. These would be worn only if they had to be among Earthians, and the Phillipi brothers would have to continue to wear their dark glasses.

There were books, some with many illustrations on subjects like plant propagation and vegetables. Inside the gardening books were packages of seeds. Glendon sat down in the floor to study the pictures. One of the books was a science textbook and another, a repair manual for a 1940 Chevrolet pickup. Gareth claimed these. There was an eighth-grade civics textbook in which Michael underlined passages he thought important. He also sent a recent edition of the Boston Globe, the New York Times, and Life magazine. He sent a copy of Gray's Anatomy and another medical book he found in a used bookstore. Carrol claimed the medical books; Stuart and Darien took the papers and the textbook. Brent got the Life magazine whose cover displayed a picture of the ocean.

"What is this language?" Darien fumed. "Our translators cannot help us with the written word."

"There are pictures on your pages," Stuart pointed out. "Perhaps we can decipher the words through them."

"There is naught but pictures here," Brent said holding up his magazine. "And our friend Michael of Tulsa was right. There are definitely women on this world. Look!" He held up the magazine, showing a photo of an actress.

"She is beautiful," Carrol said. "What a handsome race of people Michael's Taulsans are!"

"This must be the woman he was to have red-hot yjass with," Brent muttered, examining the picture with delight.

Gareth looked over his shoulder. "There is an animal around her shoulders."

"A pet, perhaps?" Brent asked.

"A very flat pet," Darien said. "They eat their gakkis and wear their smaller creatures."

Glendon took a sudden intake of air and slapped his hand over the woman’s lower extremities. “Yeep! It is naughty!” Naturally, Darien and Brent pulled his hand away to take a look.

The woman wore open-toed sandals. They all squawked as one and snapped the magazine shut and stared at each other in stricken silence.

“She was deformed,” Gareth whispered. “She had a number of toes.”

“What? Let me see,” Carrol said, and then insisted. “I am a medical officer. I must get a better understanding of their physiology.” The men shook their heads firmly, so she turned to Gray’s Anatomy. “Oh my. According to this textbook, these people really do have more than two toes on each foot.”

“Well, since it has scientific merit,” Stuart decided, so they looked at the book’s illustration. “Well, what do you know.”

“Like little fingers. Ugh. Unfinished fingers,” Darien said as he crinkled his nose in disgust. “They are deformed.”

“No webbing either,” Brent pointed out. “Can you imagine what their stockings look like!” With that, curiosity about Earthian feet was accomplished and put aside.

"I intend to plant some seeds," Glendon decided. "We will be able to eat more than rations if I have an area to plant seeds. All they use is a clear spot of common ground. If they can grow food, I can. And I will grow peaches, too... if I can get some peach seeds."

Gareth took his new books out to the front porch swing. Soon Carrol wandered out and sat with him. “Well, we have some things we can at least look at and try to decipher,” she noted as she opened the anatomy book.

“I will attempt to master the indigent people’s ground transportation,” Gareth said, flipping through the repair book. “I wonder if perhaps I would be better off simply putting the shell of the truck over an engine of ours.”

“One of those lumpy things going down the roadway at trace speed?” Carrol laughed at the thought.

“They are all so slow. Look at that one on that roadway over there. No wonder these people are no more advanced than they are. They burn wood to keep warm and they travel slower than I can trot.”

“Do not be so judgmental, Major Sword-and-Fist. You cannot trot quite that fast.” He conceded with a shrug and a smile and stretched his near arm out along the back of the swing. She leaned against it to pillow her head, and they concentrated on their reading.

“And have you any questions over the material I left for you to read en route?” he asked at length, still studying his Earthian book.

“Is there supposed to be a test over it later?” she asked as she also pretended to be engrossed in her book.

“Well…lectures only go so far; lab work is far more instructional.”

“You are twisted,” she told him with a happy smile.

Glendon sauntered out on the porch. “I am going out plant some seeds,” he announced. Gareth waved without looking up or moving his arm off the swing. “My secondary gifted task is growing things,” Glendon observed airily. “Gareth’s must be to navigate books he cannot read and pillow heads brighter than his own.” He chuckled as he dodged the book thrown his way.

The mailman came again the next day, cautious. Stuart had Carrol answer the door wearing sunglasses, and the mailman was friendlier. "Nice day, ain't it? Y'all just move here?" he asked with a tip of his hat to her. Carrol smiled.

"(Yes. Thank you for leaving the parcel for us)," she said.

"Well, that's my job," the mailman acknowledged proudly. "Did you buy this place from Darryl, or are you renting?"

"(We are staying here for a time)," she replied easily.

"Well, you've got another package from young Mike. I hear he's back to his Ivy League college for his doctorate. He sure could play football in high school. Wish he'd a-gone to Tulsa, or O.U."

"(Yes)," Carrol agreed, having not the slightest notion of what the man was talking about. "(You said you have a job? What is that)?" She meant it as a query of what a job was, but he did not interpret it that way.

"I'm a mailman, m'am. Say, are you from overseas? Like one of those war brides?"

"(I was)," Carrol replied quietly.

"Oh, well, I'm sorry," he said quickly at the sight of her suddenly solemn face. "Here's your mail. You've got two boxes from young Mike. Y'all take care, now. If you need anything, just ring." With a friendly wave of his hand, he went on his way.

One of the packages contained more canned goods and several large size articles of clothing. Darien pulled on a shirt. It was too small for him, but slender Glendon could wear it. There were pants there, too, but only Glendon could fit into them. "Glendon will be the one to do our trading for us, then," Stuart decided. "It will be easiest for him to assimilate wearing those articles."

"I am not terribly comfortable about this. They eat their ugly gakkis, you know," Glendon pointed out.

Gareth opened the second box. Inside were more books, many without the visual aid of illustrations to even give them a hint as to their content.

"What does this mean? How do we do this?" Gareth wondered, eager to understand the printed word.

"We will have to get Michael to explain," Stuart sighed.

Darien promptly headed for the door. "I will be back with him," he announced and was gone.

"Darien, no! You cannot just 'go and get him', like – oh, why is he so incautious!"

"He has always been that way," Carrol shrugged. "You know that. Besides, there is much here we do not understand, and we have only Michael for help. Oh.... more flat sweets!" she said as she looked deeper down in the second box.

"And more books. What do they all say?" Glendon wondered, frustrated.

Darien toyed with the com controls until he heard mention of the word ‘Massachusetts’, and he followed the signal to a primitive signal tower. He boldly landed the ship on the roof of a building and took the package wrapping with him down to the street. He stopped the first person he saw and demanded, “Is there a location on this sheet where I might find Michael Sheldon?” The man looked up into his yellow eyes and squawked in alarm. Without a reply he fled. Darien tried again with someone else, and again did more harm than good. He decided to walk inside and ask a man at a desk in the building lobby.

“(I was sent a package from someone, yet I cannot find his location. Can you help me)?” he asked with care.

The man did not even look at him. He took the wrapping and looked it over. With a bony finger he pointed in the upper left-hand corner and said, “Well, you’re going to need to go to Cambridge; that’s about three hundred and forty miles from here).”

“(I am a stranger here. Which direction is that)?”

The man pointed. “It’s thataway. Just follow the signs; I’m sure you’ll find it, sonny.”

“(I cannot read the signs).”

The man gave a snort. “Damned English! We saved you from the Huns, but we can’t seem to save you from yourselves.” He finally looked up and visibly paled at the sight of a frustrated Thuringi before him.

“(You are rude! Had I time, I would remain and take lessons as I am certain you are a master of non-civility),” Darien growled before he stormed away. He took his ship and landing by landing slowly made his way to Cambridge.

Michael stepped out of his bathtub and was in the process of drying when the bathroom door sprang open. Darien stood with one hand as usual on the handgrip of his saber. He cocked an eyebrow in surprise at the sight of Michael in the buff. Earthians were short in height but this one at least looked muscular enough to put up a struggle if he did not wish to help. Darien would need to be cautious; it would be humiliating to be bested by an error in judgment.

"What the –? Darien! How did you get... where did you... did anybody see you?" Michael said, wrapping his towel around at hip level.

"(I showed the package wrapping to people until I narrowed your living quarters to this location. We cannot translate the books and paperings you have sent. We need a teacher. You must come at once)." Darien explained as he grabbed Michael by the arm. His nerves were frazzled by the search. He did not consider that his bright yellow eyes, large body, and brittle scowl unnerved everyone he met. They willingly helped him find Michael if it meant that this frightening apparition would pass them by.

"Whoa, hey wait a minute," Michael protested, and jerked his arm free. "Look, I am doing my best for you all, but I have students to mentor and a thesis to defend.”

"(We will defend your thesis for you),” Darien declared confidently as he patted his sword. Michael shook his head at his literal interpretation. “(The things you gave us have no use, no meaning. We cannot decipher your writings)."

"What about that decoder thing around your neck? Why not use that?"

"(It is a language translator; it cannot help with the written word, only the spoken word)."

“Oh. I didn't realize that. Well, I'll – I will try to think of something else.” Michael pushed past the tall Thuringi and headed for his closet. He noted the little table in front of the bedroom window was off to one side and the window was fully opened. His room in the stately off-campus house did not face the street and the drainpipe next to the window reached to the ground; Darien Phillipi was enterprising at least. He pulled out clothing and dressed quickly.

"I appreciate your problem, Darien, but teaching someone to read takes time. Can this wait until later? Say, after the summer session is over and before the fall session begins? Once I finish my dissertation, I should have some worry-free time to help you out."

"(How long will it be until you will venture out to our aid)?" Darien paced back and forth in Michael's room, impatience growing with every step. "(I told Stuart it was wrong to trust you. I told him to find someone more capable. You have not the knowledge or skill or connections necessary to aid us. We need a diplomat with power, not a child’s teacher).”

"I said I would help. I have done as much as I can," Michael snapped. "At least I am trying. You might not find that in a lot of people these days."

Darien glanced at the Earthian’s feet as he pulled on socks and shoes. Michael was like Darien’s own people except his terribly ugly multiple toes, which he encased in singular cloth tubes the way the Thuringi did. The Earthian straightened to face Darien, shorter by several inches, but Michael was able to match Darien look for look. "And by the way, smartass: you might try a little diplomacy yourself by not biting the hand that feeds you."

Darien fell silent as he studied Michael thoughtfully. The Earthian man was not afraid of him. He even turned his back and sat down at a desk to peck his fingers at a graceless keyboard. It made a clattering clack-clack sound Gareth could fix in moments. Why – the Earthian ignored him; he effectively dismissed the Warrior Prince of Thuringa! What impertinence drove him to do this?

Darien peered over his shoulder and watched as Michael referred to notes. At the end of every line, the typewriter issued a loud single ring before Michael pushed a level and sent a moving cylinder back into its original place. It was a strange device and under any other circumstance Darien would have been intrigued by it.

There was a knock on the door and both men turned, startled. "Uh... who is it?" Michael called out.

"It's me, Travis," a friend said from the other side of the door. "Can you loan me some cash? I found a great deal on a rebuilt carburetor, but it's going to cost me all I have, plus more to get it."

"I don't have any money at all, I'm busted. Go ask Clarence Burton, he's always flush."

"I'd rather eat a bug than go crawling to Burton for a sou," came the belligerent response.

"You mean you already asked him?"

"He turned me down flat, the miser."

"Sorry, Travis. I can't help you."

"Okay." Travis shrugged it off and went on his way.

It dawned on the temperamental prince that Michael had no funds because he gave everything he had to send items to his Thuringi guests. He now turned away even his own people for the sake of strangers. It was as if Gunnar Porteau of Thelan refused to represent his own people in order to aid an Earthian. Such a tall order was what Darien expected of this boy, who already did more for the scouting party than most of the Stellar Council. Darien fell silent and reconsidered his foolish demands.

Michael sighed and turned to his recent acquaintance. He was not doing his world any favors by putting his own selfish wants ahead of it. That would surely give the Thuringi the wrong impression, and this surly prince would have every right to distrust people of Earth. "Okay, okay. Take me out to Oklahoma and I will see what I can do. But I can't – cannot promise anything."

They went to an overgrown empty lot nearby where Darien left his ship. Darien said nothing during the entire trip to Oklahoma, and that suited Michael.

The Thuringi were busy with their new gifts, trying to decipher on their own. Gareth stood beside his jet in the barn with a number of books open on a flat surface of the ship. He scanned parts of them with a pencil-like tube connected to his control panel. This sight was incongruous when at his feet was a gray tabby cat, rubbing against his ankles and purring affectionately.

Stuart and Brent were at the stock tank, Brent immersed in the water up to his shoulders. They argued over the caption of a picture in the Life magazine Stuart held as he stood outside the tank. "It must say this woman was captured for murder. Look what she has done; she has buried a man. All you can see is his head."

"But Brent, where are the Naradi or whatever they have here? She is smiling. Why would they produce a picture of a smiling murderess? Michael of Tulsa said they fought a war against murderers."

"I do not know, Stuart; all I do know is, they should arrest a woman who looks like that."

"What do you mean?"

"Look at her. Would you want Aura to wear something like that in public?" The two looked at each other, and suddenly Stuart grinned.

"The last time Aura wore something like that in private, we had Erich later."

"She has no dignity," Brent sniffed.

"She is your sister," Stuart pointed out.

"I have no dignity, either," Brent said, and squirted Stuart in the face with a double palm of forced water.

Glendon knelt in his bare patch of land in a side yard, diligently planting seeds. From time to time, he referred to the illustrations in the books he set at the end of the rows, but most of his efforts were from experience. Carrol sat on the back-porch steps and wearily flipped through the pages of Gray's Anatomy.

Darien landed his ship in the middle of the back yard, behind the house out of sight from the road. When she saw Michael, Carrol brightened and approached the vehicle, as did the others.

"(Michael of Tulsa, you are a most welcome sight)," Stuart greeted happily. "(Your gifts are bountiful, but we are at a loss to use them)."

"So I heard," Michael replied dryly. "I have some paper and pencils; let's get down to work and I will try to teach you something." He glanced out at Gareth's ship. "What are you doing, there?"

"(I was trying to decode this information)."

"There is an easier way. Come on."

"(Good)," Gareth breathed a sigh of relief. "(I was about to dump my files on Borelliat dialects, and they would be hard to replace without the Academy)."

Michael began with the phonics of the English alphabet and went through simple words and phrases. Once they could pronounce the vowels and consonants and blends correctly, their universal translators could do the rest if they read aloud. They all caught on quickly and progress was rapid. By midnight they all had a rudimentary grasp of the structure of written English.

"(But tell us, Michael of Taulsa)," Brent said as he held out his magazine, "(What is the riddle of this)?"

"She is burying him in the sand. It is sort of a fun tradition among beachgoers. You bury someone lying down in the sand while they are asleep, and then when they wake up, only their head is uncovered. They have to scratch their way loose. It is a joke."

"(And where are her garments)?" Brent persisted.

"She is wearing a bathing suit. It is what women wear when they go swimming."

"(Ah! Now do you see why great waters are the wellspring of life)?" Brent intoned to the others, who laughed with him.

Michael glanced around the front room as they prepared a bed for him. It was not like the old farmhouse he remembered; their improvements were marvelous. All the walls were plastered smooth, no longer the peeling wallpaper-covered gypsum of before. There was a warm, cozy, cocoon-like feeling here. They more than repaired the scarred-up table and the broken chairs; each piece was encased in a clear crystal-like coating. Other furnishings were crystal encased, too – the exposed wood on a couch, several chairs, more tables.

"(As soon as we have mastered the written word some of us will seek a means of providing supplies, and I will decide whom I should contact)," Stuart told Michael. "(Our com has been tuned to your radio waves and we have heard about a great deal of Earth events. What is Cuba and what is Russia)?"

"They are both countries. Russia is a country that is threatening to take over the world. Say, we could sure use your help."

Stuart regarded Michael gravely. "(Our mission is not to rule others, Michael. Were we to become involved in military action by taking sides in a local struggle, we might become tempted to want to govern the hard-won territory, and the temptation to rule is a danger with which we dare not dally. All we seek is a haven for our kinsmen when they arrive. It will be a few more years yet, and even then, we must continue to Farcourt. Getting involved in the Earth's business is not really the Thuringi way)."

A sudden disgruntled snort sounded from a corner. Darien leaned against the wall; his arms folded across his chest as he gazed out the window. “(So, you finally learned the bitter lesson taught to us by the Stellar Council)?” Darien growled. “(It is impractical to help a weaker world; they only become dependent and supplicants make poor allies).” His eyes met Michael's. The Earthian man could read the trouble that could come of Darien's displeasure, and no translation was necessary.

The next morning, they were up early. Michael suggested they go into town for supplies. The old truck ran better than Michael ever heard it run before. Gareth used a can of house paint and a rag found in the barn, and the truck was now marshmallow white. It was covered in that crystalline substance about which Michael had to inquire.

"(It is a covering, a veneer, which we use. If you calibrate a laser pistol to the degree I did and find the right type of vaguno, you can encase weak objects to strengthen them)."

"Vaguno... sand. So, it is covered in glass? Like the windows?"

"(Not as brittle)," Gareth said.

Michael, Gareth and Glendon drove into town for supplies. Michael withdrew more money from his bank. He had lied to Travis. His Earthian friends were capable of getting help from someone; the Thuringi had no one else but him. He knew his family’s accountant would question this withdrawal, but Michael saw no other option. The Thuringi needed his help now and he could only hope they would reimburse him someday. His accountant and his father Darryl would just have to believe it was for some fling since he was not about to say he needed money for aliens. They would have him committed to an asylum in the belief he had a nervous breakdown.

They went to the hardware store where Michael bought tools, wire, switches, and pieces of pipe Gareth needed. Michael called his school’s principal from a pay phone to explain he needed a few days of unexpected personal leave. He mumbled something about family problems. The principal agreed to arrange for a substitute until Michael’s return, but he did not sound happy.

Michael introduced Glendon to the store owner, Ed Gentry. Ed took one look at the large healthy young man and offered to hire Glendon to load and unload feed sacks. Michael held the same job when he was a kid before Darryl struck oil. Glendon was interested, so Ed Gentry invited Glendon to help out a little to see how he liked it. Gareth waited in the truck while Michael bought groceries at the local store, and then they headed back to the ranch. Gareth practiced reading road signs and billboards.

"I hope Glendon will do all right," Michael mused. "He cannot read very well yet."

"(There is no need to worry about Glendon)," Gareth told him. "(He is a veteran Naradi Famede. He can speak with almost anyone quite artfully)."

A bullshit artist! Michael thought. Now there’s a handy talent for an explorer!

Several trucks were parked in front of the house. Michael recognized the emblem of a drilling company on the sides of the trucks. He was alarmed when he saw men standing at the bottom of the porch steps, kept there by Darien who stood on the porch wielding the flyswatter.

"You don't scare us with that thing," one of the men said to Darien as Michael got out of the truck and approached the scene.

"(I do not have to frighten you. I only have to squash you)," Darien said menacingly.

"Put that down, you can't hurt us with it," another man tried to reason.

"(Come upon this domicile again, and I will show you how much it will hurt you)," Darien growled.

"What's going on?" Michael asked.

"Hey, that's Darryl's kid. Mike, who are these guys? What're they doing here?" a man asked.

"Hi, Mr. Forbes. These folks are friends of mine. They are foreign and all their belongings were lost in a storm. I am letting them stay here until they get back on their feet. Dad knows all about it."

"Oh, he does. Well, we didn't," Mr. Forbes explained. "We were coming over here to pee and wash up, and this big fella won't let us in. Threatens us with a flyswatter, Mike, I ask you! That's supposed to be a threat?"

"(No, this is a threat)," Darien snapped as he dropped the flyswatter and drew his sword with a deadly flourish. He stopped it scant inches from the nearest and most belligerent roughneck. The man backpedaled quickly as they all gave a shout of alarm.

"Stop it," Michael ordered as he bounded up the porch steps. He grabbed Darien's sword arm and held it tightly. "Are you crazy, put that thing away! This is not a military insurrection, just a bunch of tired, dirty men who want to clean up a little."

"(They shouted at us, called us insulting names. They threatened violence. And that one disturbed Carrol)," Darien thundered as he pointed at a heavy-set bald black man who was just as agitated as his fellow workers.

"Is she all right?" Michael asked.

"(I am well)," Carrol said quietly, from the shadows of the doorway. "(He did not do actual harm to me. He only startled me)."

Michael turned back to the crowd of men. "There's the pump in the back yard you can use to wash." He remembered the unique way the house interior was now remodeled and added, "The bathroom is not working. That was where we were, to get parts to fix it, so you will have to find a private spot to relieve yourselves."

"Too much trouble for me," someone said. "I'll just wait ‘til I get home. But hell, if I'd known someone was living here, I wouldn't have come."

"Especially people who threaten you with flyswatters and swords," someone else added, and after a pause, the absurdity of his statement made all chuckle but Darien.

Michael nudged him and said quietly, "Go inside now. I will take care of it. This is my element, not yours." Darien hesitated, then turned and went inside. Gareth carried their bags inside, and the roughnecks got into their trucks to leave.

"That big fellow, is he always so bad tempered?" Mr. Forbes asked Michael.

"Well, he is just overprotective, I guess. See, the lady is his sister, and she has been through some pretty rough times lately," Michael explained. “A death in the family.”

A subdued chorus of understanding "ohs" rose from the remaining group of men.

"You think he might be interested in roughnecking? They look pretty strong, him and that one you came up with," Mr. Forbes said.

"They might. They have never done oil field work before, but they learn quick."

"Tell 'em to get in touch with me if they're interested." Mr. Forbes shook hands with Michael.

"Have that big one leave his flyswatter at home," one wag added. His companions laughed as the crew trucks left.

Michael went inside, to Carrol. "Are you sure you are okay? Where is Stuart?"

"(He took Darien’s ship and went with Brent to look at the gakkis over the hill past the stock pond. I am well. That one simply...)"

"(He resembled a Shargassi, in a way)," Darien said. He stood beside Carrol and appeared quite subdued now. He looked Michael in the eye and looked away quickly. "(You are right, Michael of Taulsa. This is not my element. I was ready to strike at them all. I am a warrior, not a diplomat)."

"Well, you impressed them enough that Mr. Forbes wanted to know if you and Gareth would work for him. He likes men who are strong and unafraid."

Darien said nothing but studied Carrol instead.

Carrol rose from her chair and patted his arm. "(Thank you for defending me, brother, but little Carrol is a Thuringi. I have not forgotten how to fight)."

"(I feared your will to fight hand to hand died with Maranta Shanaugh)."

She cast her gaze downward. "(That did not kill my will to fight. It only broke my heart)."

Gareth finished bringing in the sacks. "(...and thank you so much for helping)," he grumbled, but to Michael said a friendly, "(You are a good man in a pinch, Michael).” He slapped a hand on Michael's back, and it sent the Earthian stumbling forward into Carrol.

“(My pardon, I ask from you)!” Gareth exclaimed.

"It is okay, I am getting used to being slung around by guys who do not know their own strength," Michael wisecracked. He did not mind falling into Carrol. She smiled at him, and he found himself smiling back. It gave him hope for maybe something with her.

Darien, reminded by Gareth's former complaints, looked through what they brought back from town. "(Where is Glendon)?" Gareth explained about the feed store job and Darien nodded. "(A logical place for a planter-at-heart)."

Stuart and Brent came in the back door after shaking dirt from their clothing. "(It is true)," Brent informed the others, "(These are neither gakkis nor cabrett. They are Earth cattle. You cannot ride them)."

"Well, you can but I see you found out what usually happens when you try," Michael said with a grin as they put away the groceries.

He drove back into town to pick up Glendon, who waited on the porch of the feed store. The smiling Thuringi got into the truck with a sack in his hands. He waved at the feed store owner as the truck pulled away. "So! How was work – successful, I guess?"

"(I moved sacks: taking many sacks off a vehicle, putting one or two in other smaller vehicles. I moved articles and implements around where they directed. He gave me currency and his woman gave me this sack of goods)." He dug around inside the sack and brought out a jar of home canned peaches. "(Your world is adept at generous bartering, I am glad to note. I am to come back the day after tomorrow. Am I chattering? I suppose I am. But I enjoyed myself, Michael of Taulsa! I like this job business of yours).”

"Did they ask you a lot of personal questions?"

"(Yes. We have been the subject of a great deal of speculation in the area. Carrol is a war bride from England, I believe it is said, and I am her limey brother. Although I am not her brother, I thought it imprudent to correct them. What is limey)?"

"Limey. It ... well, it is an insult that ignorant people use toward another group of people, in this case from a country called England which is where you sound like you are from. They are just speaking from ignorance and bigotry, Glen. Do not let it bother you."

"(I will not. They were pleasant to me. They were very pleasant after I moved their wood burning apparatus)."

"Oh God. You moved a stove? By yourself?"

"(Yes. They said it needed to go in a corner, so I put it there. The men they sent to help move it did not mind that I did it without them. They smiled and handed me this cold liquid refreshment)." Glendon dug again in his sack and brought out a half-finished bottle of beer. "(It tasted terrible, but I did not want to insult their generosity. I swallowed it. I did not know if perhaps they are as proud of their potables as the Thelan. If it was smoothed a little, it might taste like Thuringi ale)."

"It is Earthian ale, beer. It can make you drunk if you drink too much of it."

"(How much is too much)?" Glendon asked as he peered at the amount left in the bottle with concern.

"I guess it won't hurt to finish it off. I can't tell if you are normally this talkative or whether the beer is helping you. What all did you say to them?"

"(I was careful not to mention our true circumstances. I let them believe we lost our possessions in a storm. They spoke of many things I did not understand: elections, civil rights, eyes and hour, so I said nothing. I smiled and moved things as they told me)."

Michael took the beer bottle from Glendon and took a swig of it himself. "Eisenhower, yeah. Sounds like a good plan to me." They shared the beer on the way to the ranch.