the gate checked only Sten's ID, then in a bored manner waved the gravcar forward.
Nice, Sten thought. Here we are on the edge of everything, and the taxi drivers can go anywhere they want. Great security.
He paid the driver at dockside, got out, and then goggled.
The flagship of 23rd Fleet was the Imperial Cruiser Swampscott . Sten had looked the ship up and found out that it had been built nearly seventy-five years previously; it was periodically upgraded instead of being scrapped. The description gave no inkling of just how awesome the Swampscott had become—awesome in the sense of atrocious.
The cruiser evidently had been built to the then limits of hull design, power, and armament. Upgrading had started by cutting the ship in half and adding another 500 meters to the midsection. The next stage had added bulges to the hull.
After that, the redesigners must have been desperate to meet the additions, since the Swampscott could now be described as a chubby cruiser that had run, very hard, into a solid object without destruction.
As a grand finale, there were twin structures atop the hull, structures that would be familiar to any Chinese Emperor of the T'ang Dynasty of ancient Earth.
Since the Swampscott had never fought a war, these excrescences did not matter. The ship, polished until it glowed, was used for ceremonial show-the-flag visits. It would settle down in-atmosphere in as stately a manner as any dowager queen going down steps in a ball gown. If a planetary assault had ever been required, the Swampscott would either have spun out of control or wallowed uncontrollably. In a wind tunnel, a model of the Swampscott might have been described as having all the aerodynamics of a chandelier.
Sten recovered, checked the time, and hurried into the lift tube.
Exiting, he saw not one but four full-dress sentries and one very bored, but very full-dressed, officer of the deck.
He saluted the nonexistent and unseen "colors"—toward the stern—and the OOD, then gave the lieutenant a copy of the invitation and his ID card.
"Oh, Lord," the lieutenant said. "Commander, you made a real mistake."
"Oh?"
"Yessir. Admiral Doorman's headquarters are downtown." .
Downtown? What was that navalese for? "Isn't this the flagship?"
"Yessir. But Admiral Doorman prefers the Carlton Hotel. He says it gives him more room to think."
Sten and the lieutenant looked at each other.
"Sir, you're going to be very late. Let me get a gravsled out. Admiral Doorman's most insistent about punctuality."
This was a great way to start a new assignment, Sten thought.
Admiral Doorman may have insisted on punctuality, but it applied only to his subordinates.
Sten had arrived at the hotel in a sweaty panic, nearly twenty minutes late. He had been escorted to the lower of Doorman's three hotel suites, reported to the snotty flag secretary at the desk, and been told to sit down.
And he waited.
He was not bored, however. Awful amazement would have been a better description of Sten's emotional state as he eavesdropped on the various conversations as officers came and went in the huge antechamber:
"Of course I'll try to explain to the admiral that anodizing takes a great deal of work to remove. But you know how he loves the shine of brass," a fat staff officer said to a worried ship captain.
"Fine. We have a deal. You give me J'rak for the boxing, and I'll let you have my drum and bugle team." The conversation was between two commanders.
"I do not care about that exercise, Lieutenant. You've already exceeded your training missile allocation for this quarter."
"But sir, half my crew's brand-new, and I—"
"Lieutenant, I learned to follow orders. Isn't it time you learn the same?"
Real amazement came as two people spilled out of a lift tube. They were just beautiful.
The ship captain was young, dashing, tall, handsome, and blond-haired. His undress whites gloved his statuesque body and molded his muscles.
His companion, equally blond, wore
Nice, Sten thought. Here we are on the edge of everything, and the taxi drivers can go anywhere they want. Great security.
He paid the driver at dockside, got out, and then goggled.
The flagship of 23rd Fleet was the Imperial Cruiser Swampscott . Sten had looked the ship up and found out that it had been built nearly seventy-five years previously; it was periodically upgraded instead of being scrapped. The description gave no inkling of just how awesome the Swampscott had become—awesome in the sense of atrocious.
The cruiser evidently had been built to the then limits of hull design, power, and armament. Upgrading had started by cutting the ship in half and adding another 500 meters to the midsection. The next stage had added bulges to the hull.
After that, the redesigners must have been desperate to meet the additions, since the Swampscott could now be described as a chubby cruiser that had run, very hard, into a solid object without destruction.
As a grand finale, there were twin structures atop the hull, structures that would be familiar to any Chinese Emperor of the T'ang Dynasty of ancient Earth.
Since the Swampscott had never fought a war, these excrescences did not matter. The ship, polished until it glowed, was used for ceremonial show-the-flag visits. It would settle down in-atmosphere in as stately a manner as any dowager queen going down steps in a ball gown. If a planetary assault had ever been required, the Swampscott would either have spun out of control or wallowed uncontrollably. In a wind tunnel, a model of the Swampscott might have been described as having all the aerodynamics of a chandelier.
Sten recovered, checked the time, and hurried into the lift tube.
Exiting, he saw not one but four full-dress sentries and one very bored, but very full-dressed, officer of the deck.
He saluted the nonexistent and unseen "colors"—toward the stern—and the OOD, then gave the lieutenant a copy of the invitation and his ID card.
"Oh, Lord," the lieutenant said. "Commander, you made a real mistake."
"Oh?"
"Yessir. Admiral Doorman's headquarters are downtown." .
Downtown? What was that navalese for? "Isn't this the flagship?"
"Yessir. But Admiral Doorman prefers the Carlton Hotel. He says it gives him more room to think."
Sten and the lieutenant looked at each other.
"Sir, you're going to be very late. Let me get a gravsled out. Admiral Doorman's most insistent about punctuality."
This was a great way to start a new assignment, Sten thought.
Admiral Doorman may have insisted on punctuality, but it applied only to his subordinates.
Sten had arrived at the hotel in a sweaty panic, nearly twenty minutes late. He had been escorted to the lower of Doorman's three hotel suites, reported to the snotty flag secretary at the desk, and been told to sit down.
And he waited.
He was not bored, however. Awful amazement would have been a better description of Sten's emotional state as he eavesdropped on the various conversations as officers came and went in the huge antechamber:
"Of course I'll try to explain to the admiral that anodizing takes a great deal of work to remove. But you know how he loves the shine of brass," a fat staff officer said to a worried ship captain.
"Fine. We have a deal. You give me J'rak for the boxing, and I'll let you have my drum and bugle team." The conversation was between two commanders.
"I do not care about that exercise, Lieutenant. You've already exceeded your training missile allocation for this quarter."
"But sir, half my crew's brand-new, and I—"
"Lieutenant, I learned to follow orders. Isn't it time you learn the same?"
Real amazement came as two people spilled out of a lift tube. They were just beautiful.
The ship captain was young, dashing, tall, handsome, and blond-haired. His undress whites gloved his statuesque body and molded his muscles.
His companion, equally blond, wore
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