Spartan Planet - A. Bertram Chandler [37]
Brasidus lifted his goblet. "To your good health, Peggy."
"And to yours." She sipped. "H'm. Not at all bad. Of course, in this setting it should be retsina, and there should be feta and black olives to nibble . . ."
"You will speak in riddles, Peggy."
"I'm sorry, Brasidus. It's just that you're so . . . so human in spite of everything that I keep forgetting that your world has been in isolation for centuries. But suppose we just enjoy the meal?"
And they did enjoy it. Brasidus realized that his own appreciation of it was enhanced by the Arcadian's obvious delight in the—to her—unfamiliar food and drink. They finished their stew, and then there were ripe, red, gleaming apples—"Like no apples that I've ever seen or tasted," commented Peggy, "but they'll do. Indeed they will"—and another flagon of wine. When they were done, save for the liquor remaining in the jug, Brasidus wiped his mouth on the back of his right hand, watched with tolerant amusement as his companion patted her lips with a little square of white cloth that she brought from one of her pockets.
She said, "That was good, Brasidus." From a packet that she produced from a shoulder pouch she half shook two slim brown cylinders. "Smoke?"
"Is this the same stuff that Commander Grimes was burning in that wooden thing like a little trumpet?"
"It is. Yours must be about the only Man-colonized world that hasn't tobacco. Commander Grimes likes his pipe; I prefer a cigarillo. See—this is the striking end. Just a tap—so. Put the other end in your mouth." She showed him how, then remarked, as she exhaled a fragrant blue cloud, "I hope that the same doesn't happen to us as happened to Sir Walter Raleigh."
"And what did happen?" Brasidus inhaled, then coughed and spluttered violently. He hastily dropped the little cylinder onto his plate. Probably this Sir Walter Raleigh, whoever he was, had been violently ill.
"Sir Walter Raleigh was the Elizabethan explorer who first introduced tobacco into a country called England. He was enjoying his pipe after a meal in an inn, and the innkeeper thought that he was on fire and doused him with a bucket of water."
"This fat flunkey had better not try it on you!" growled Brasidus.
"I doubt if he'd dare. From what I've observed, a sergeant on this planet piles on more G's than a mere knight in the days of Good Queen Bess." She laughed through the wreathing, aromatic fumes—then, suddenly serious, said, "We have company."
Brasidus swung round, his right hand on the butt of his pistol. But it was only the village corporal—a big man in slovenly uniform, his leather unpolished, his brass tarnished. His build, his broad, heavy face were indicative of slowness both physical and mental, but the little gray eyes under the sandy thatch of the eyebrows were shrewd enough.
"Sergeant!" he barked, saluting and stiffening to attention.
"Corporal—at ease! Be seated."
"Thank you, Sergeant."
"Some wine, Corporal?"
The corporal reached out a long arm to one of the other tables, grabbed an earthenware mug, filled it from the flagon. "Thank you, Sergeant. Your health, Sergeant. And yours, sir." He drank deeply and noisily. "Ah, that was good. But, Sergeant, my apologies. I should have been on hand to welcome you and . . ." he stared curiously at the Arcadian. "You and your . . . guest?"
"Doctor Lazenby is one of the officers of the starship Seeker."
"I thought that, Sergeant. Even here there are stories." The man, Brasidus realized, was staring at the odd mounds of flesh that were very obvious beneath the thin shirt worn by the alien.
"They aren't concealed weapons," remarked the Arcadian wryly. "And, in the proper circumstances, they are quite functional."
The corporal flushed, looked away and addressed himself to his superior. "I was absent from the village, Sergeant, as today is