Book 1 Flight of the Armada Chapter 3 Part 3

Darien's next day in the oil field was no more pleasant than his first, with two exceptions. One, he was assigned to handle the pipe joints for the drill unit and this physical work gave him an outlet for his anger. Two, Darien Phillipi made a friend.

He was a slightly built, sandy-haired man named Lloyd Martin. He spoke in a soft voice from beneath a sandy-colored mustache. Darien, whose people never grew facial hair, was amused by the sight of it but said nothing aloud. Gharadee men grew beards and the Hunda favored the occasional mustache with their thin white hair, but Darien never saw so much variety in one place until they came to Earth.

It was no chore for the Thuringi prince to move the heavy pipes from where they were stacked to the hole being drilled, but he noticed Earthians were not as strong as Thuringi, so he used their machines rather than his own strength as he could have. They could tell he was not straining but some of his co-workers thought he was lazy rather than simply bored.

He neglected to bring a lunch with him again. Half the night was spent waiting for bathroom availability; the meaty chili did not sit well with Thuringi digestions. He had not given another thought about meals until late that morning. Lloyd drove his own truck to work so when he saw Darien without a lunch bucket again, he took him into a nearby diner and offered to buy his lunch.

Darien ordered what Lloyd ordered, a hamburger and fries with a side order of soda. All three pleased Darien very much. The day was more pleasant because of the tasty lunch and the friendly encouragement of quiet Lloyd.

"Pete's not an easy man to work with, I'll grant you that. I take it you've never done roughneck work before?"

"No, but it is a task that will garner needed wages, and I shall not be deterred," Darien replied firmly, and bit into his hamburger with gusto.

"You'll be all right. Don't take anything Pete says seriously; consider the source."

That phrase got Darien through the rest of the afternoon as he dismissed the miscreants' comments privately. Lloyd gave him a ride to Gentry's store. "I'll pick you up tomorrow at the diner," Lloyd offered. "It's not out of my way, and I know those guys who ride with Dickie are a pain in the ass."

"Thank you," Darien said with relief. He bought a fizzy drink from Ed Gentry and offered to pay for the one from the day before.

Ed declined. "No, I was proud to do it. You looked like you needed it."

Glendon had another jar of canned peaches from Margie Gentry to bring home. "You see, Darien, there are wonderful people here on Earth," he told him in the truck as Darien inspected the jar in one hand and held the soda in the other. “I hope to bring Janis and Echo here to meet the Gentrys when the Armada arrives. I would like them to meet kind Earthians like them.” Glendon's driving was a little better today, and Darien did not have to clutch at the dashboard to maintain his balance.

The brother princes were on the front porch in a rousing debate as evening approached. Stuart rocked in the porch swing as Darien leaned against a porch roof post, his hands shoved into his front jeans’ pockets. The intermittent rain of the day was now gentle and steady, the breeze bracing and pleasant.

“This young President Kennedy needs help against his enemies. I do not see why we cannot help him along,” Darien declared. “Is that not the Phillipi way, the altruistic thing to do?”

“What do you have against altruism?” Stuart asked. “You speak of it as if it is a personal offense.”

“Ninety percent of our people are dead and none of those whom we have always aided lifted a hand to help prevent it, that is what I have against it. Doing a good deed for an individual is one thing. It is a kindness, pure and simple. But to continually rush to the aid of others who only care whether your blade is sharp enough to defend them, so they do not have to do it themselves, is stupid.”

“Then why are you promoting the idea of helping President Kennedy in a military gesture? You know full well that Father will not approve of it and it goes against our plans, and any other way would smack of the very altruism you abhor,” Stuart demanded.

“It is not stupid if we can profit by it.” Darien rolled his eyes as Stuart exhaled in a sudden gust of disbelief. “Oh, do not be so offended. How can we hope to promise our people a safe haven in which to rebuild our strength for the final journey to Farcourt? We cannot! As long as these people are in open war with each other, we will not know whether or not they will turn on us or even whether they will let us land! Or whether they will not destroy themselves and take this planet with it.”

“What do you propose we do, Darien? Aim our weapons at them and force them to capitulate to our demands for peace? And then what; turn our guns on every country and demand peace? Darien, this world is so much larger than Thuringa, so many more people and more land and factions against the other that our few scout ships cannot possibly force peace upon them! We are the ones who need aid. All they would have to do is band together in their United Nations and vote against allowing our people to rest here. Then what? Start a war with Earth when the Armada arrives? Become like the Shargassi, and take over planets that have something we want for ourselves?”

“Of course not,” Darien snapped, annoyed that Stuart would even suggest such a comparison. “But if America is the most powerful country on this world and we need powerful allies, then is it only sensible to collect them through helping them?”

“How can we convince these people that we only desire peace and that we are not monsters from outer space, when the first thing they are aware that we do is pull out weapons and make their decisions for them?” Stuart countered.

“Well, how do you propose we introduce ourselves to Earth, then? Do you plan to accidentally slash open the legs of every leader in the world, then treat his or her leg?”

“You need not be such an istay,” Stuart came back, and Darien’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Why Stuart, I did not think you even knew how to pronounce that word.”

“You might be surprised at the kind of words I know how to pronounce,” Stuart told him shortly. “The trouble with being compared to you, Naughty Boy, is that I am constantly assumed to be the perpetual Good Lad. It never occurred to you or anyone else that what I do and what I think are not always for good.”

“Oh?” Darien perched on the edge of the porch rail. The problems of Earth would have to wait or be solved by Earthian means, now. For Stuart to make such a statement was tantamount to a confession of something darker. “Just what might you think that is not good? Of what naughtiness might you be capable?”

“I can curse just as vile, I can threaten just as cruel, and I can wegodgoe with just as much lust as you,” Stuart told him. He sat in the porch swing and stretched out his legs to rest his feet on the porch rail. “The main difference is, I pick and chose my battles carefully. When you curse people take it as a matter of course. When I curse, people are rocked back on their feet with the notion that I even know the words. When I threaten, the very notion is as unnerving as the hideous promises I make instead of expected and prepared to meet.”

“And do you wegodgoe better than I?” Darien laughed.

“No, but it would probably make a more lasting impression from the novelty of the suggestion.” Stuart grinned, but his grin slipped a little as a thought occurred to him. “The lesser use, I do not know why that is so. She never told me why. Perhaps I am simply not that good, after all.” The silence was deafening. Stuart’s soft, deep voice rumbled out a concern that caught Darien off guard.

“Maybe you are, and Aura is just a chill woman.”

“She was not when we first married,” Stuart sighed. “What else can it be except disappointment?”

Darien was astonished at Stuart’s courage to voice such a thing. Darien would rather lose his arm than even hint that his bed performance was off. “Perhaps you overwhelm her,” he suggested. It was certainly what he would have assumed.

Stuart laughed. It was not his usual full hearty laugh, but it was one of amusement. “Ah, Darry,” he chuckled. “You were never one to let me denigrate myself.”

The knowledge that he was the chief reason behind Stuart’s problem made it all the more painful to Darien. Had he not been so careless and cruel to Aura, she might be more open to the gentle, loving Stuart; Stuart, who actually deserved Aura’s fiery passion which Darien squandered.

“It is not your fault,” Darien insisted.

“Well, perhaps you are right,” Stuart said reflectively, “but then if you ever tasted the kind of passion of which Aura is capable, then you would see my point.”

Darien was thunderstruck. Good God. Stuart still has no idea Aura and I were once lovers, he really does not know. Darien stammered but before he could formulate a reply or confession of his own, Carrol and Glendon came out on the porch. They carried lemonade in glasses and handed the drinks out. They joined Stuart on the swing. Darien sat helplessly on the porch rail and listened to them comment on the nice evening shower.

“The things that we do can bolster our convictions or wrap us in damnation,” Maranta told him on Stuart’s wedding day, “Darien, whatever you do in your life, do as if it will be placed in a book for all to inspect. Even if no one else sees that book, your conscience can see the fact plainly. No punishment is worse than what we do to ourselves.”

Darien was simply uneasy at the time Maranta said it, concerned only that the man he most admired somehow found out Darien unwittingly robbed Stuart of Aura’s First Night seventy years before the night. He still did not know just to which transgression Maranta referred, but the words haunted him now.

“Why have you two been so intense?” Carrol asked, noting Darien had not touched his drink.

“Nothing important,” Stuart said easily. “Just brotherly jesting.”

Stuart would confess his imagined shortcomings to his twin brother but would of course not mention such a raw subject to their sister and their Naradi friend. Darien suddenly did not want to argue with his brother any longer. He already wrapped himself in the damnation of his private history with Aura. The Thuringi people had too much at stake to risk following his impatient ideas about diplomacy.

The Elders of Thuringa worried over a future power struggle and warned the king the twin princes would have to be carefully raised. Lycasis saw no need for such concern: Stuart, being the eldest, was the Crown Prince and heir to the Thuringi throne. Darien would be the future Warrior Prince, in charge of his brother's armed command. Properly instructed and correctly taught by their Warrior General, the brothers could share in a glorious apex of Thuringi power. As the years went by, Lycasis was proven right. No two brothers were as close as the Phillipi twins and the Elders agreed it was a remarkable and fortuitous alignment. They had disagreements like any other siblings, but their close bond transcended mere squabbles.

Darien remembered Stuart’s strategic abilities during the escape from Thuringa. He had been an able leader, much better than Darien; cool under pressure and quick at making sensible decisions. He was also a peacemaker and making a peaceful haven was what a Crown Prince should do. Stuart would have been as good a Warrior Prince as he was a Crown Prince and Darien was not remarkable in either role. The God of All aligned the stars correctly at their birth. Stuart was capable of someday assuming the mantle of kingship and if he needed a hotheaded but loyal Warrior Prince, he had one. It was a shame that Stuart would not have the kind of queen to make him happy in his home.

"I must venture out and get things we need," Stuart had told Darien, and handed him some dollar bills. "We must all remember to carry this currency with us to trade for services rendered. Michael said that we will receive our purchase and any balance due us." Darien stuffed the bills in a pocket and nodded.

Saturday afternoon Stuart opened the gate to the gakki pasture and Glendon drove the truck out into it. It was time to learn to drive an Earthian vehicle properly, Stuart told them, and Darien and Glendon were the first to agree. Once they all understood which pedals did what, it was a matter of who made the truck lurch around the least. Gareth cringed inwardly every time someone ground the gears, and they all groaned in dismay when Stuart plowed over a little sapling by mistake.

“I did not see it,” he protested. “It all but leaped out in front of me.”

“Roots and all,” Darien taunted.

Gareth also had a difficult time driving. “I can repair them, I never claimed I could master them,” he reminded the others. “Let me see what this does,” he said, putting it in reverse. He stepped on the gas, let off the clutch, and hung onto the steering wheel for dear life as the truck abruptly roared backwards, scattering the panicky cows that wandered over. He slammed on the brakes, and the resultant dust that kicked up had all six Thuringi coughing and waving their hands to dispel the swirling tide. “I will stick to repairing them,” they heard Gareth call out.

“Let us try it again. This is worse than a simulated fighter,” Brent groused.

“That is what the problem is for us, at least for me!” Glendon exclaimed. “We are making this too hard! We expect this thing to move like a ship in a three-dimensional area when all it is supposed to do is go back and forth on the ground. All right then, I am ready to think on a simple linear plane.” After so many years of flying in space it was true; the more they practiced with a ground vehicle’s movement in mind, the easier it was.

By the time the sun set, they had a better grasp of driving an Earthian truck. The dinner that night was Glendon's turn again, and he served peaches of course as well as a brace of cut-up fowl. The instructions on how to cook them was courtesy Mrs. Gentry. His first attempt at fried chicken was well-received by the Thuringi, who all hoped what had happened after the chili would not re-occur. Fortunately, it did not have the same effect but it did weigh heavy in their stomachs.

Michael’s principal refused his request for a leave of absence. “Michael, you can’t just walk away now during the summer session; this is the best chance your kids have for catching up with the rest of their classes. You are finally making inroads reaching the at-risk, potential dropouts. If you leave now, they’ll see it as proof that no one in their lives care about them and they’ll drop out for good.”

Michael had no argument to that. Even if he were free to explain the truth, that visitors from another part of the galaxy needed his help and guidance, the lives of students in his care were every bit as important. He could not abandon children who already experienced crushing hardship in their young lives and were at the crossroads of success and failure, not even for the sake of six experienced adult Thuringi scouts of a sovereign galactic power. The Thuringi were perfectly capable of determining what choices to make. The best help Michael could offer was to remain gainfully employed so he could afford to provide supplies to the scouts, and offer whatever advice he could regarding the kinds of choices Earth had to offer. Walking away from his responsibilities would derail plans he had for his own life, plans that had been in place long before he went off the road to avoid hitting a spacecraft. He had to pick his battles carefully and work out a strategy to do the most with what he had.

Michael was able to arrange for a telephone repairman to come to the ranch house and install a phone line. The man liked what he saw when he spied Carrol but the Thuringi men made him uneasy with their height and large muscles and eerie yellow eyes. He worked as fast as he could and left promptly after he explained how to use the phone. Gareth itched to take it apart and inspect it, but Stuart said no. It was not on a party line; Michael paid extra so the line would be private. He knew if he did not, the whole world would be alerted to the aliens by the inquisitive party line operators from the phone company.

At the end of every hot, humid day Darien trudged home and immediately set to work scrubbing the sludge off his skin. He lost considerable weight by week's end and was unnervingly slim, not the robust Darien Phillipi de Saulin at all. He took it with a carefree air, but the others could tell something troubled him. He would not discuss it until a call came for him one night. Gareth answered it and handed the receiver to Darien. They could all hear the raucous voice on the other end of the line. Darien knew it was Pete.

"Hey, Goldilocks! Forbes said to remind you to bring your lunch tomorrow; we’re going out to a field where there ain’t no diner handy. See if your mommy'll pack you a nice sammich after she braids your pigtails!"

"(I am well aware of the need to bring lunch, thank you)," Darien replied, tight-lipped.

"Yeah well, you don't seem too awful bright, or the boss wouldn’t have to keep reminding you, Dumbass." There was a click and then a dial tone. Pete had hung up.

"Does he taunt you that way often?" Stuart asked as Darien fought to not slam the phone back down on the cradle.

"Yes."

"Why? What is the reason for his actions?"

"I do not know," Darien's reply was terse. "He finds fault with me constantly. I have learned to make a game of not snapping his neck. Fortunately for him, I have won so far." He stood and stretched. "I shall go to bed early tonight."

"Do you want some luket?" Carrol asked.

"No, I do not. Thank you." With that he went upstairs.

Carrol turned to Stuart. "Does that sound like Darien to you? I never thought I would miss his bold improper ways, but this troubles me, Sunny."

Stuart left with Glendon and Darien the next morning and went with his brother to the cafe in order to learn more about hot coffee and other Earthian things. They sat at a booth in the diner, where Stuart spoke softly in their native tongue.

"Darien, I do not wish for you to continually be insulted by these people. You are a Thuringi prince. I would not ask you to suffer slights such as you have described, not even for our people. There is always something else you can try."

"No, this cannot be abandoned, Stuart. I must gain the upper hand of the situation." Darien toyed with the handle of the new black lunch box he purchased the day before at the Gentry’s store. Inside was an apple and a packet of rations re-packaged in wax paper so it would not look obvious in its original Thuringi container.

"You are a stubborn, aggressive soul," Stuart said with a shake of his head. Jenny the waitress approached them.

"Well, hi there. Y’all must be related."

Stuart rose to his feet politely. "(We are brothers, madam. And to whom have I the honor to address)?"

"Oh my," Jenny exclaimed as she tilted her head back to address him, "you Brits have the nicest manners! My name's Jenny," she said as she pointed to her name tag.

"(I am Stuart, and you have met my brother Darien)."

"Darien, so that's your name." She shook hands with Darien, who was careful not to hurt her hand with his grasp. "Look, I'll bring you some coffee and put an ice cube in it to cool it down, okay?"

"Oh, Kay," Darien replied.

She left to get their coffee.

“What is this oh kay?” Stuart asked.

“It is a phrase of permission, I believe. Michael has used it before as well, in the capacity of approval and assurance.”

“I wonder why it is those particular letters?”

“It is my belief that Earthians do things out of whimsy for most things,” Darien said with a shrug.

Jenny returned with two cups of coffee. "Here's cream, and there's sugar right there. You want anything to eat this morning?"

"(A... a cooked egg)," Darien told her

"How do you want it cooked?" she asked as she pulled out her order pad. She saw his perplexed look, and added, "Fried, scrambled, boiled, over-easy or omelet?"

"Omelet?" Darien repeated curiously

"You got it. How about you, brother Stuart?"

"(I would like a egg over easy)."

“Bacon and grits?”

Stuart shot Darien a dumbfounded glance. “Perhaps a little,” Darien said, and shrugged at his brother. He did not understand her, either.

She left to hand the cook the order. "It all sounds interesting," Stuart told Darien. "I wonder what it is it will be over, this bakenangreets?"

"Their dialect is one thing, but their odd re-phrasing is beyond understanding," Darien said. Dickie Forbes' truck pulled up as usual and Darien grimaced. "And thus begins another bad day." The four men crowded into the diner.

"Hey, it's Marilyn Monroe and Lana Turner!" Pete called out at the sight of the brothers.

"Lay off them right now," Dickie Forbes ordered.

"Our hair is apparently of issue as too long for their liking," Darien muttered.

Stuart rose to his feet slowly to face them, allowing the movement to emphasize his size and build. Pete took a step backward as the princely figure seemed to keep rising before him. Stuart’s unsmiling expression was at once bland and ominous like the dead stillness before a windstorm, and the dark glasses betrayed no hint of his gentle eyes. "(My name is Stuart Phillipi. My brother Darien tells me you are not pleased with his appearance)."

"Well now, no, not exactly," the roughneck said feebly.

"(Darien has done well holding his renowned temper. In our homeland, a man's hair length and other physical attributes are inconsequential as long as he can fight. Darien is well regarded and even feared by some there. Yet I have overheard taunts toward him from some of you. I shall warn you that my brother has slain many men in war. To insult him further is to invite disaster. Do you understand this, oil man)?" His voice rumbled with all the grandeur and majesty of the Royal Thuringi High Court, imperial and final.

"Uh, sure," Pete replied.

"(Who is this Dickie Forbes)?" Stuart asked.

Dickie stepped up, and they shook hands. "Your brother is a hard worker. Don't worry about these roughnecks, they're just having fun," he said in his easygoing way.

"(At Darien's expense)," Stuart pointed out with regal chill, and the lift of one eyebrow suggested he believed Dickie was lax about reining in his subordinates. Dickie felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. "(It may prove costly to you someday, and you would not wish to pay the price Darien can exact)."

He sat back down and with a proud unhurried wave of a hand, royally dismissed them from further attention. There was nothing rude or express in his actions, but the roughnecks and their boss got the distinct impression that their audience with this regally self-confident young man was over. Although he found disfavor with their actions, he was willing to overlook it for the now, but his generosity was waning.

The drilling rig crew sat uneasily at another table. Jenny brought out the Phillipi's plates. The two Thuringi gazed at the food and then up at Jenny.

"(These are eggs)?" Darien asked.

"Yeah; didn't you want an omelet and one over easy?"

"Yes," Stuart said. The brothers picked up their forks, and together they took bites.

"Excellent!" Darien said after he swallowed. "It does not crunch at all." He smiled at the waitress. "(I must learn your secret)."

"Hey, you're really cute when you smile," she told him. "You ought to smile more often." His smile turned into his roguish leer, and she laughed. "Oh, boy, are you a hot one!" She went over to take the roughnecks' orders.

Darien's friend Lloyd came in and sat with the Phillipi brothers when they beckoned. Darien made the introductions. Lloyd then turned to the waitress and said, "My usual, Jenny." He turned back to the brothers. "I almost didn't make it," he admitted. "Thought I was going to have to take my little girl to the hospital."

"(Why)?" Stuart asked.

"She's running a fever, got a summer cold or something. She catches at least two every year." They nodded at him, but only partially understood what he meant. "Y’all married, have kids?"

"(I have a wife and son)," Stuart told him. "(Darien chooses to lead a solitary life)."

"Well, there's good and bad to say for both," Lloyd laughed easily. "Some days you want to tear your hair out; other days, you don't know what you'd do without them." Stuart readily agreed.

Jenny brought Lloyd a plate of soft yellow fluff, with two brown wrinkled strips beside it just like the strips on their plates. "Bacon and scrambled eggs," he said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "When my wife has a day off like today, I let her sleep in, so I have breakfast somewhere else, like here. Yes, sir! I love bacon and eggs."

Stuart and Darien studied their bacon and grits. “(There are many ways to eat egg, but only one way to have a bacon),” Stuart noted.

“Oh yeah; they make the crispiest bacon in town, here,” Lloyd assured him.

“(What is a greets)?” Darien asked.

Lloyd pointed with a jab of his fork. “It’s that white stuff right there. It’s made from corn.”

Darien cautiously tasted a spoonful, and Lloyd chuckled at the look of surprise and alarm on his co-worker’s face.

“I reckon it’s kind of hard getting used to another country’s food.”

The Phillipi brothers paid for their meal and for Lloyd’s, since he was kind to feed Darien lunch previously when the prince had no coin on hand. When the oil crew rose to go to work, the Phillipi brothers were ready at the same time. They got to their feet and left the establishment just ahead of the crew. Stuart noted Darien’s weight loss and spoke in Thuringi, completely forgetting that his translator converted his words into American. He did not intend for the crew to understand him, but they did: “(Darien, you must eat better and regain your weight. I daresay you cannot lift more than three hundred pounds).”

“(I beg your pardon; I can still toss you across the room)!”

“(Perhaps but take it easy on these little fellows. They appear to squash easily).”

Lloyd did not know whether it was Stuart’s aloof warning earlier that he heard about, his offhanded comment about squashing the crew or Darien’s nasty snicker of a laugh at that comment that put the teasing temporarily on hold, but he liked it.

Friday evening Glendon returned to the ranch house alone. "Darien's friend Lloyd invited him to a bar. I was uncertain about the idea at first, but Darien assured me that he would behave and return to us with no damage to our mission."

"Darien's assurance is not terribly comforting," Stuart said. "His idea of good behavior and mine are radically different."

“To say nothing of the fact that he cannot hold his liquor,” added Brent.

“I always thought he did admirably,” Gareth said.

“On the surface, perhaps he appears that way. But if he has too much, he cannot recall his actions the next day.”

Stuart frowned. “That is worrisome. I hope he will be careful.”

“Not to worry,” Glendon assured his prince. “Darien is in the good company of his friend Lloyd Martin. Lord Gentry told me he is a trustworthy man and will keep Darien out of trouble. Lloyd Martin feels Darien might make better acquaintances of his co-workers away from the workplace, and Darien asked that I return here. Otherwise, it will only cause more mockery if they believe he must have a guardian like a child, and I agree. He must stand on his own.” Stuart did not argue with the Naradi's decision.

Darien immediately liked the bar Lloyd took him to the moment he stepped inside. It was smoky and poorly lit with glowing signs behind the bar extolling the names of the brands of ale on hand. It was so close to a Thuringi cantina, only infinitely dirtier, that Darien felt a heavy twang of homesickness on his heartstrings. A yowling voice wailed along in time with the tune from the music box bespeaking cheating lovers and lonesome feelings. Young women in tight-fitting clothing carried drinks and glasses back and forth from the bar to the tables, and everywhere there were Earthians chatting about issues of the day.

Lloyd claimed a table for them nearly in the center of the establishment, across from the bar. "My wife lets me go out and whoop a little every Friday night," he explained by shouting to Darien over the music. "I never get more than three beers, and it gives me a little chance to unwind and people-watch." Darien nodded and sat down.

"You can take your glasses off," the waitress said to Darien as she put paper coasters on their table.

"(Thank you, but I prefer them on)," Darien told her the same story he told everyone. "(Eye problems)." He ordered a beer as did Lloyd. They talked about work on the oil rig for a while. Gradually the conversation drifted to Lloyd's wife and daughter.

"My little Monica’s in the third grade." He took a picture out of his wallet and handed it to Darien. Darien saw the resemblance between Lloyd and the face of the child in the picture ring away despite the dark hair that framed her face. She had large brown eyes and a gap in her teeth, as pert and attractive as a Thelan child. Darien was fond of the Thelan race.

"(She looks very charming)," he replied as he handed back the picture.

"She's a good little girl -" Lloyd began but before he could finish, two hands came down on Darien's shoulders from behind.

"It's Marilyn Monroe!" the roustabout called Pete bellowed. "Where's your girlfriend you had with you the other morning?"

Darien turned around in his chair. "(Do not insult me again)."

"Come on, Hollywood," Pete said. "It ain't sunny in here." He snatched off Darien's glasses, and froze in place. The yellow Thuringi irises caught the lights and glowed by the illumination. Darien rose to his feet, grasped the man's shirtfront, and lifted him off his feet with both hands.

"(My brother warned you about making me angry, istay)," Darien declared.

"Uh...!"

"(You are too stupid to suffer, yet too theoretically advanced to kill)," Darien observed as he dangled Pete a foot off the floor. "(I suppose all that is left to me is to hurt you until you scream)."

"Oh God, help me out here," Pete screamed and wriggled to get away from those frightening devil eyes.

"Darien, our beer's here," Lloyd said. He did not jump to his feet like the others in the bar but remained where he sat. Darien let go of his tormentor suddenly, and Pete fell to the floor in a heap. Darien sat back down to address his beer. Lloyd took a look at Darien's eyes and flinched. "Sweet Jesus," he breathed in awe. "What happened to your eyes?"

"I got pissed," Darien intoned a phrase borrowed from Michael Sheldon. Lloyd said no more about the yellow irises.

The bar patrons gave Darien a wide berth. When he did not appear to have a forked tail or horns and pitchfork and had nothing eviler on his mind than to drink a few beers with his friend, they relaxed a little but kept far away.

Darien and Lloyd stopped by the latter's house after another round of beer, and Lloyd introduced Darien to his wife and daughter. Lloyd's wife Katie found Darien delightfully mysterious with his large build and yellow eyes. Little Monica Martin took to him right away.

"I'm going to be a princess for Halloween," she told him.

"(A princess, really)," he replied. She walked over and stood by his knee.

"Yes. I'm going to have a beautiful dress and a big tall hat like princesses have."

Darien recalled a conversation at work. "(This is the festival where children dress strangely and go about extorting sweets from strangers)?" he asked, and Katie Martin laughed along with her husband.

"You hit the nail on the head, Darien," she told him. "I don't reckon you'll have many visitors out there at the Sheldon ranch. It's pretty far out for most folks to go."

"(Good)," Darien said. "(We do not have many sweet things on hand)." He glanced again at Monica, who gazed up at him in fascination. "(What is on your mind, child)?"

“What is that thing on the side of your face?” she asked, meaning the cordlike Universal Translator.

“(That helps me hear the hearts of my fellow man),” he said in a deliberately dramatic tone, and it made her laugh.

"Why are your eyes yellow?"

"(I am magic)."

"I know that," she said with a smile. "Do magic people always have yellow eyes?"

"(Only the very good ones)," Darien confirmed.

Lloyd took him home to the Sheldon ranch. "You have done fired up that little girl's imagination. I don't believe I've ever seen her so fascinated by anyone in her life."

"(How many men with yellow eyes do you bring home, on the average)?" Darien asked, and Lloyd chuckled again as Darien got out of the truck.

"You'd be the first."

Each day after he came in from work at the feed store, Glendon tended his small garden. The royal siblings were not used to gardening ventures; Arne had been a large city that did not host public vegetable gardens, only flower gardens. They were intrigued by the idea and quite impressed that even though farmer's son Gareth was busy in the workshop barn, their very own Naradi Famede was the one who knew how to encourage edible plants to grow.

Carrol and Stuart offered to help. Glendon showed them how to tell the difference between Earthian plants and weeds once he realized the difference himself, how to hoe back weeds and when and how to water the vegetables. Nearly everything was done from illustrations found in seed catalogs and from Glendon’s careful listening at the feed store. While it appeared that he was only making polite conversation with customers, he was in fact gleaning information about Earthian plant cultivation from them. He brought this knowledge home and imparted it to his royal companions.

It was hard work. The royal siblings never realized before what it required to get produce to the marketplace. They learned about plants in their science studies but as nobles, they never saw plants on the vine from the viewpoint of a farmer. As warriors of a space-going fleet they came to associate tending plants with grow-lamps and automatic irrigation systems. For the first time in their lives, Stuart and Carrol stood in the blazing sun and dutifully chopped away weeds from growing food plants. They hauled buckets of water or wrestled with a water hose and learned when to pinch back shoots and when to allow new growth to flourish.

Thanks to Gareth’s experience on his farm as a youth they learned even more about farming, including all about making fertilizer and using compost to improve the crop yield. From time to time, they peppered him with questions which Gareth gladly answered. They did not ask him to actually work in the garden, since his ship construction work and other mechanical improvements were far more important ways to spend his time. The Phillipi could not contribute very much to shipbuilding but they could put their muscle into tending a garden, and it made more sense for them to do it rather than take Gareth away from his task or expect Glendon to work after a full day at the feed store.

Stuart was thrilled despite the sweat and effort of farming. He was doing something helpful at last; he was able to contribute in a very real way! While it was important for him to make contacts on Earth, it was also important to be able to provide sustenance for them all. Once the Armada arrived, they would need to provide their own food if at all possible.

He stripped to the waist and after an awkward start, thought nothing of wearing abbreviated trousers called ‘shorts’ with sturdy Earthian slippers to wear as he tended the garden. His skin turned a golden bronze and his muscle tone improved with every stroke of the hoe. Crops in the area benefited from the presence of a Phillipi with the power of Arda liquid at his command and the gift of wind and atmospheric control. Stuart could coax rain clouds to provide a beneficial soaking with no serious thunderstorms. When storms developed naturally, the dangerous storm cells never seemed to trouble the Iron Post vicinity. Stuart was subtle enough not to make clouds travel in an illogical fashion.

Carrol also did her part in the garden. She wore abbreviated clothing and piled her long hair up on her head, and in time she developed as deep a tan as her brother. Thanks to her Arda-powered ability to heal herself and others, she was able to accomplish a great deal more work than the others. Glendon worked in the garden on the weekends for the sheer joy of indulging in his favorite hobby. Gareth helped from time to time since not only did he have the most practical experience at the venture than the others, but he could also not resist being around Carrol Shanaugh de Phillipi in her shorts and skimpy blouse.

Darien would have been happy if all he did was turn over the healthy soil with a rake. Gardening was a relief to him and balanced his oil field work. The entire side yard along the driveway was eventually taken over for several kinds of squash, tomatoes, pole beans, melons, and greens. Darien also liked to go to the nearby creek and fish with Brent, and the two friends brought home a string of fish to grill every time. Once the harvest began, the Thuringi ate well. Glendon brought home jars with instructions from Mrs. Gentry on how to can the excess produce. Darien was curious about this aspect and took command of it. As usual, he went overboard, and they ended up with dozens of jars of preserved vegetables and no place to store them.

He marched out with a shovel to the opposite side yard and dug a deep cellar. He lined this with large rocks from along the creek bank and added several rows of shelving. Stone steps leading down to it with heavy wooden crossbeams for a roof. He covered the whole thing with dirt from the excavation, and there was plenty of room for the jars.

“I wonder how long harvest season lasts,” Glendon said one night as he idly leafed through a feed store calendar.

“It had best last long enough to fill the rest of these jars,” Darien declared. “Word! Tomorrow we shall go on a berry excursion!” That was what they did, but they enjoyed the blackberries so much, they ate most of them before they returned home.