Spartan Planet - A. Bertram Chandler [36]
"It is, rather. But the schools maintain a steady flow of replacements, mainly from among those who have just failed to make the grade as hoplites."
"I see. Failed soldiers rather than passed veterinarians."
They got out of the car and walked slowly into the inn, into a long room with rush-strewn floor, tables and benches, low, raftered ceiling, and a not unpleasant smell of sour wine and cookery. At one end of the room there was an open fire, upon which simmered a huge iron cauldron. The half dozen or so customers—rough-looking fellows, leather-clad, wiry rather than muscular—got slowly to their feet at the sight of Brasidus' uniform, made reluctant and surly salutation. And then, as they got a proper look at his companion, there was more than a flicker of interest on their dark, seamed faces.
"You may be seated," Brasidus told them curtly.
"Thank you, Sergeant," replied one of them, his voice only just short of open insolence.
The taverner—fat, greasy, obsequious—waddled from the back of the room. "Your pleasure, lords?" he asked.
"A flagon of your best wine. And," added Brasidus, "two of your finest goblets to drink it from. What have you to eat?"
"Only the stew, lord. But it is made from a fine, fat young goat, just this very morning cast off from its father. Or we have sausage—well-ripened and well-seasoned."
"Peggy?" said Brasidus, with an interrogative intonation.
"The stew will do very nicely. I think. It smells good. And it's been boiled, so it should be safer . . ."
The innkeeper stared at her. "And may I be so impertinent as to inquire if the lord is from the strange spaceship?"
"You've already done so," Margaret Lazenby told him, then relented. "Yes. I am from the ship."
"You must find our world very beautiful, lord."
"Yes. It is beautiful. And interesting."
Roughly, Brasidus pulled out a bench from a vacant table, almost forced Peggy down onto the seat. "What about that wine?" he growled to the innkeeper.
"Yes, lord. Coming, lord. At once."
One of the goatherds whispered something to his companions, then chuckled softly. Brasidus glared at the men, ostentatiously loosened the flap of the holster of his projectile pistol. There was an uneasy silence, and then, one by one, the goatherds rose to their feet and slouched out of the room. The Arcadian complained, "I had my recorder going." She did something to the controls of one of the instruments slung at her side. An amplified voice said loudly, "Since when has the Army been playing nurse to offworld monsters?"
"Insolent swine!"
"Don't be silly. They're entitled to their opinions."
"They're not. They insulted me." Then, as an afterthought, "And you."
"I've been called worse things than 'offworld monster' in my time. And you've ruined their lunchtime session, to say nothing of my chances of making a record of a typical tavern conversation."
Reluctantly, "I'm sorry."
"So you damn well should be."
The innkeeper arrived with a flagon and two goblets. They were mismatched, and they could have been cleaner, but they were of glass, not of earthenware or metal, and of a standard surprising in an establishment such as this. He placed them carefully on the rough surface of the table, then stood there, wine jug in hand, awaiting the word to pour.
"Just a minute," Margaret Lazenby said. She picked up one of the drinking vessels, examined it. "H'm. Just as I thought."
"And what did you think, Peggy?"
"Look," she said, and her pointed, polished fingernail traced the design of the crest etched into the surface of the glass. "A stylized Greek helmet. And under it, easy enough to read after all these years, 'I.T.T.S. DORIC.' "
"I.T.T.S.?"
"Interstellar Transport Commission's Ship."
"But I thought that your ship belonged to the Interstellar Federation's Survey Service."
"It does."
"But apart from the Latterhaven freighters, no ships but yours have ever called here."
"Somebody must have. But what about getting these . . . these antiques filled?"
Brasidus gestured to the innkeeper, who, after a second's hesitation, filled the Arcadian's