done—if I did not love them so for what they have done.” There were murmurs, from both humans and Lemurians.
Alan Letts nodded silently. He hated that they’d had to subvert the fascinating . . .
fun
Lemurian culture to such a wild extent in order to save its people from extermination. Adar was right: the old ways were gone forever. All Alan could do was hope that someday the free, happy spirit of the Mi-Anaaka they first met might reemerge and thrive.
Adar continued. “Regarding small arms for our troops, the fast-shooting Blitzer Bugs, similar to the Thompson of the Amer-i-caans, only lighter and simpler, will soon outpace the Allin-Silva breechloaders we are issuing to our armies. They cannot replace the longer weapons, because they are for short-range only, but they have their place. For now they have been issued to Cap-i-taan Risa-Sab-At’s Maa-reen commaandos, and enough were sent to Maa-ni-la for Chack’s commaandos there to become familiar with them. The new . . . pistols—again, copies of the Amer-i-caan Colt Forty-Five, have been perfected at last”—Adar glanced at Bernie Sandison, who nodded—“and will soon be issued as well.”
“Can we feed ’em all?” Letts asked.
“Ammunition production’s on target, if you’ll pardon the expression,” Bernie Sandison, the dark-haired former torpedo officer and acting Minister of Ordnance in Sonny Campeti’s absence said with confident pride. “I’d still like the troops to make an effort to pick up their brass, though.”
“I hope they’re on target better than the torpedoes!” said Letts, and there were chuckles. The results of the torpedo tests Bernie performed in front of the whole city several weeks before had been mixed at best.
Bernie flushed. “We’ll have torps by the time the skipper gets here and wants
Walker
’s tubes back. I think we’ve finally got the guidance issues on the MK-3 hot-air fish sorted out. It’s the same as it was on the other two we tried, but the fish is so much faster, I think it tended to overcontrol.”
“I’ll say!” said Rolando “Ronson” Rodriguez, smiling archly beneath his Pancho Villa mustache and making a motion with his hand like a porpoise jumping out of the water.
“It was better than your dud electric job!” Bernie snapped, and Ronson cringed.
“We’ll make better batteries,” Commander Steve Riggs defended. They would too. Steve was Minister of Communications and Electrical Contrivances and he’d worked wonders. They all had. But, realistically, it would be a while before they had good enough batteries for electric torpedoes. “Besides,” Riggs continued, “what about Laumer? He wants torpedoes too.” No one answered, and Irvin Laumer wasn’t there. He was still working night and day converting the old, virtually useless submarine S-19 into a surface ship. He envisioned her as a torpedo gunboat, and the jury was out whether he was wasting his time or not.
“I am sure Mr. Sandison will soon have enough torpedoes for everyone,” Adar said, his voice more positive. “Enough torpedoes—and many other new contrivances that were not yet ready for the ‘torpedo day’ demonstration. But we must now discuss what we shall do with them—and all the other wonders I spoke of. What will the Grik do now, and what shall we do about it?”
“Certainly we need to consider what the Grik will do.” Simon Herring spoke for the first time. “But perhaps the better question should be, What are
we
going to do, and what can the Grik do about it?”
Adar nodded slowly. “I like that question better.” He looked at Herring. “And if the question is not so different from the one you posed at the last meeting such as this, your emphasis on recrimination and withdrawal seems . . . changed.”
“Thank you, sir,” Herring replied, and it was his turn to blush as he looked at Alan Letts. “And as my understanding of the situation has improved, I hope my analysis has as well.”
Alan Letts nodded silently. He hated that they’d had to subvert the fascinating . . .
fun
Lemurian culture to such a wild extent in order to save its people from extermination. Adar was right: the old ways were gone forever. All Alan could do was hope that someday the free, happy spirit of the Mi-Anaaka they first met might reemerge and thrive.
Adar continued. “Regarding small arms for our troops, the fast-shooting Blitzer Bugs, similar to the Thompson of the Amer-i-caans, only lighter and simpler, will soon outpace the Allin-Silva breechloaders we are issuing to our armies. They cannot replace the longer weapons, because they are for short-range only, but they have their place. For now they have been issued to Cap-i-taan Risa-Sab-At’s Maa-reen commaandos, and enough were sent to Maa-ni-la for Chack’s commaandos there to become familiar with them. The new . . . pistols—again, copies of the Amer-i-caan Colt Forty-Five, have been perfected at last”—Adar glanced at Bernie Sandison, who nodded—“and will soon be issued as well.”
“Can we feed ’em all?” Letts asked.
“Ammunition production’s on target, if you’ll pardon the expression,” Bernie Sandison, the dark-haired former torpedo officer and acting Minister of Ordnance in Sonny Campeti’s absence said with confident pride. “I’d still like the troops to make an effort to pick up their brass, though.”
“I hope they’re on target better than the torpedoes!” said Letts, and there were chuckles. The results of the torpedo tests Bernie performed in front of the whole city several weeks before had been mixed at best.
Bernie flushed. “We’ll have torps by the time the skipper gets here and wants
Walker
’s tubes back. I think we’ve finally got the guidance issues on the MK-3 hot-air fish sorted out. It’s the same as it was on the other two we tried, but the fish is so much faster, I think it tended to overcontrol.”
“I’ll say!” said Rolando “Ronson” Rodriguez, smiling archly beneath his Pancho Villa mustache and making a motion with his hand like a porpoise jumping out of the water.
“It was better than your dud electric job!” Bernie snapped, and Ronson cringed.
“We’ll make better batteries,” Commander Steve Riggs defended. They would too. Steve was Minister of Communications and Electrical Contrivances and he’d worked wonders. They all had. But, realistically, it would be a while before they had good enough batteries for electric torpedoes. “Besides,” Riggs continued, “what about Laumer? He wants torpedoes too.” No one answered, and Irvin Laumer wasn’t there. He was still working night and day converting the old, virtually useless submarine S-19 into a surface ship. He envisioned her as a torpedo gunboat, and the jury was out whether he was wasting his time or not.
“I am sure Mr. Sandison will soon have enough torpedoes for everyone,” Adar said, his voice more positive. “Enough torpedoes—and many other new contrivances that were not yet ready for the ‘torpedo day’ demonstration. But we must now discuss what we shall do with them—and all the other wonders I spoke of. What will the Grik do now, and what shall we do about it?”
“Certainly we need to consider what the Grik will do.” Simon Herring spoke for the first time. “But perhaps the better question should be, What are
we
going to do, and what can the Grik do about it?”
Adar nodded slowly. “I like that question better.” He looked at Herring. “And if the question is not so different from the one you posed at the last meeting such as this, your emphasis on recrimination and withdrawal seems . . . changed.”
“Thank you, sir,” Herring replied, and it was his turn to blush as he looked at Alan Letts. “And as my understanding of the situation has improved, I hope my analysis has as well.”
Similar Books
