blower, refrigerator, and the tall searchlight tower. A temporary wooden deck was laid over the openings left from the complete removal of her shattered aft deckhouse. The short mainmast aft remained, defiantly flying the Stars and Stripes, but the tall foremast had not yet been reinstalled. The bridge was vacant and the fire-control platform was bare. Everything that could be removed and reconditioned ashore had long since been taken off, and she floated considerably higher in the water than anyone had ever seen her. Still, she floated. All her parts, possessions, and weapons would be returned to her, as would, ultimately, her crew. For now, she floated almost empty of the things that made her what she was; there was no roar of blowers, no machinery noises; she still slumbered, still resting from her grievous wounds, but she was no longer dead. She’d risen from the grave and it was only a matter of time before she’d awake once again.
“Look! Oh, look!” cried Sandra, tears streaking her face.
Beside her, Princess Rebecca hopped up and down, clapping her hands. “Oh, Lady Sandra! Is she not the most beautiful sight?”
Lawrence didn’t understand his friend’s attachment to the ship. It was but a thing. He was thrilled that it would again become the weapon it had once been, and that made him happy. He was also glad his friends were happy-for whatever reason. He hopped lightly and clapped too, imitating Rebecca’s gestures. Dennis Silva stood beside him, fists clenched at his sides, a sheen over his one good eye. Suddenly, he raised a hand and blew his nose in his fingers. Absently, he started to wipe them on Lawrence’s plumage.
“Mr. Silva!” Rebecca scolded, suddenly eyeing Dennis.
“A little snot won’t hurt him! Runt’s gettin’ all frizzed out. Prob’ly oughta’ comb a little grease in his hair.” Under the princess’s continued stare, Silva sighed and wiped his fingers on his T-shirt.
Unexpectedly, Lawrence had begun growing a crest on top of his head that Silva compared to a cock roadrunner’s. Among the Grik, the only real “crests” of any kind they’d seen had been on dead Hij. Since it was now known the Hij were almost universally older than their Uul warriors, Bradford had ecstatically proclaimed “their boy” must be nearing adulthood, different species or not.
Letts, Adar, and Spanky moved through the throng to join them.
“A hell of a thing,” Spanky said, his own eyes a little bright. “I never would’ve thought it.”
“I had no doubts,” proclaimed Adar. “Once you were over the shock of losing her and had a plan, I knew, sooner or later, Walker would float again. You Amer-i-caans are amazingly ingenious.”
“Couldn’t have done any of it without your equally amazingly ingenious folk,” Alan Letts reminded him.
“Where’s Karen?” Sandra asked. “She should be here!”
“She’s not feeling too well,” Alan said, a little self-consciously. “She’s no bigger than you, and with her being somewhere around seven months along…”
Sandra laughed. “She’s big as a house! I know. Don’t worry; she’s fine. But she is a little big.” Her eyes twinkled. “I still say it’s twins!”
Alan pretended horror. “Don’t say that anymore!”
Over the tumult, they heard a rising drone and looked at the sky. Not to be outdone, the Air Corps was putting in an appearance. Three planes, or ships, as Mallory demanded they be called for some reason, wobbled overhead in a semblance of a formation. He’d finally won approval for his force to be called the Air Corps, even if most of its pilots were naval aviators. His insistence on the seemingly contradictory term confused everyone. Ben would be at the controls of one, Tikker another, and young Reynolds the third. The Air Corps had eight planes now, and with the implementation of Ben’s improvements they’d been declared perfected as far as the fundamental design would allow. Within weeks, there’d be two dozen airplanes and they’d face the distinct problem of having more planes than competent pilots.
Sandra hugged herself. It was all finally starting to come together. After all their hard work and sacrifice, she was beginning to feel, well, optimistic. The war had really just started, but with all the new naval construction under way, the professional army they’d begun, the allies they had working along the same lines toward the same goals-they had airplanes, for goodness’ sake!-and now with the resurrection of Walker…
“Mr. Chairman,” she addressed Adar, “we must transmit the news to Captain Reddy at once! He’ll be so pleased!”
“It has already been done, my dear, with careful observation to details! I expect he is watching the proceedings with us, through the eye of his mind, at this very moment.” He grinned and blinked amusement. “I took the liberty of sending your warmest love as well.”
Sandra blinked back more tears and hugged the tall Sky Priest.
“Now, ain’t that the damnedest thing?” Spanky asked. They all turned to look where he stared. Sister Audry, surrounded by a few dozen ’Cats, was standing near the pier mumbling something none of them could understand. Adar caught a word or two, but over the hubbub, any meaning was lost. The nun finished speaking and brought the fingertips of her right hand to her forehead, down to her stomach, then to her left and right shoulders. The Lemurians with her copied the gesture.
“Say,” said Silva, “does this mean our good sister’s a ’Catechist?”
“You idiot,” Spanky groaned, “you don’t even know what that means!”
“Do so!”
“Yeah, he does,” Letts confirmed. “And pun aside, he may be right.” He looked at Adar. “Mr. Chairman, we’ve been promising each other a lot of ‘talks’ lately. Maybe we’d better have one this evening.” He glanced around. “Lieutenant Tucker, please join us. Better invite Courtney too, or he’ll pout. Spanky, you’re Catholic.. ..”
“Sorta.”
“I’d like you and Princess Rebecca to attend as well. Princess, you’ve stated several times that there are others of perhaps… similar faith to that of Sister Audry. I think it’s time we sort that out, at least. I’ll go invite the young nun to our little meeting.”
Other eyes watched the proceedings discreetly, through eyelids narrowed with concern.
“I had heard rumors, but I could hardly credit them. Didn’t dare to hope,” Billingsly muttered to the man beside him. Linus Truelove was Billingsly’s most trusted agent and a talented analyst as well. He doubled as Ajax ’s third lieutenant, hiding his skills beneath a competent but unimaginative, almost oafish facade. His “cover” was easy to maintain. He was a large man, bigger even than the one-eyed protector who often escorted the princess, and even though he pretended drunkenness on occasion, he never drank enough to cloud his quick, devious mind- another advantage he had over the man called Silva, who appeared just as oafish as Truelove pretended to be.
“The enemy grows more capable by the day, and our window of opportunity may close before we are ready.”
“We will be ready soon enough,” Truelove assured him. “Curtailing our obvious activities has lulled them, I think. Even the guards at their industrial section are not as alert as they were.” He grinned wickedly. “I think they are beginning to trust us, or at least they no longer have as great a care.”
“Possibly. Regardless, when we move it must be as quick and silent as possible. They must not know what has happened for a good many hours and they must not be allowed to interfere once they discover the truth.”
“You did not mention ‘bloodless’ as an imperative. ‘Quick and silent’ is almost never bloodless,” Truelove observed.
“Quick and silent remains the priority.”
“Bloodless,” repeated Truelove, eyeing Silva. “I doubt that would be possible, regardless. That one, I think, hides behind much the same mask as I. I doubt he will accede ‘bloodlessly.’ Besides, he is the first I have seen among these barbarians whom I might enjoy testing myself against. He has a reputation.”
“Put it out of your mind!” Billingsly snapped. “Perhaps he does, but your ‘reputation’ must remain secret!”
When the water level inside the basin equalized with the bay, the great gates opened and Walker was towed slowly, gently clear of the dry dock. Even as she was tying up to the old fitting-out pier, the dry dock’s next inhabitant was being positioned to enter. Keje-Fris-Ar paced nervously back and forth on the strangely abbreviated battlement that remained offset, above the rebuilt deck of his Home.
“This is madness!” he remarked, eyeing the angle of approach. “The dry dock is too small!”
“It is not too small, Father,” assured Selass, Keje’s daughter. She strode each step right beside him and placed her hand comfortingly on his shoulder. “Really, you should not exert yourself so. Your wound
…”
“My little wound is well healed, thank you,” he said gruffly, but then looked fondly at his child. He and Selass
