anymore. They don’t like it, and neither do I. It’ll just make you look bad in the eyes of the ’Cats in our own division. Don’t forget some of them—the best ones—were Marines before they were snipes. Clear?”
“Clear,” Laney grumbled.
“Good. Now see if you can sort out the feed water problem, and let me know what’s up.” He paused. “How many of our guys did he say Chack wants?”
“Half a dozen or so.”
Spanky nodded. “Well, just keep working. I’ll pick ’em out as I move forward.”
With that, McFarlane eased past the sweating men and panting ’Cats and worked his way forward through the condensation-dripping maze of pipes and roaring machinery. The scene in the forward engine room was much the same, and after detailing a couple of guys topside to help Chack, he paused for a few words with the throttlemen. Continuing on, he cycled through the air lock to the aft fireroom. The firerooms had to operate in a pressurized environment to allow constant air and fuel flow so the fires would burn hot and steady. Once inside, he was greeted by yet more activity: men actually working on the feed-water pump, for example, as well as other things he thought were already fixed. He also noted a dramatic increase in temperature. It was probably a hundred and twenty degrees.
Sweat gushed in the hot, humid environment, and he wiped it from his face and flung it aside to join the slimy black slurry coating the plates beneath his feet. The stench was unbelievable. It was the usual combination of bilgewater, sweaty bodies, mildew, fuel oil, and smoke. Added to those was something more like wet dog than anything else he could think of. Ultimately, the sum was greater—and far more nauseating—than the parts. He didn’t know how the ’Cats, with their more sensitive noses, could keep their breakfasts down. Number four was offline while repairs were underway, but the ’Cat burner batter on number three stood panting, ready to replace the plate if the fuel tender called for it. The ’Cat looked miserable, and Spanky honestly couldn’t see how the furry little guys stood the heat. When they began accepting Lemurians into the Navy as full-fledged crew members, he’d never dreamed so many would strike for the engineering spaces. It was just too hot and confined. He’d been surprised when he was swamped with applications. ’Cats loved machinery, and regardless of the environment, they clambered to be close to the most complicated examples—like the engines and boilers. Some couldn’t hack it. Even the ones that stayed, and apparently thrived, shed their fur like mad, and tiny, downy filaments drifted everywhere. Even though they tried to clean it every day, the slurry on the deck and catwalks was tangled with the longer stuff to the point that, from one end of the fireroom to the other, it looked like a clogged shower drain. Every time he entered the firerooms he sneezed, but the ’Cats that stayed were diligent and enthusiastic, and he couldn’t have done without them. Maybe some didn’t understand everything they were doing, but they didn’t always have to, and they treated him like some sort of omniscient wizard.
He listened for a moment, as they expected him to, and occasionally touched a gauge or felt a pipe. It was only his normal routine, but it always left them wondering what mystical significance the act represented. He stifled a grin and nodded friendly greetings before sending a couple of the least occupied above. Passing through the next air lock, he entered the forward fireroom.
“Oh, good God!” he exclaimed, when, looking up, he was immediately greeted by a pair of large, naked, and entirely human-looking breasts (if you could get past the fine, soot gray fur covering them). “How many times do I have to tell you to wear some goddamn clothes? At least a shirt!”
“It too hot!” Tab-At (hence, Tabby to the other Mice) declared. Somehow, her slightly pidgin English also contained a
“Clear,” Laney grumbled.
“Good. Now see if you can sort out the feed water problem, and let me know what’s up.” He paused. “How many of our guys did he say Chack wants?”
“Half a dozen or so.”
Spanky nodded. “Well, just keep working. I’ll pick ’em out as I move forward.”
With that, McFarlane eased past the sweating men and panting ’Cats and worked his way forward through the condensation-dripping maze of pipes and roaring machinery. The scene in the forward engine room was much the same, and after detailing a couple of guys topside to help Chack, he paused for a few words with the throttlemen. Continuing on, he cycled through the air lock to the aft fireroom. The firerooms had to operate in a pressurized environment to allow constant air and fuel flow so the fires would burn hot and steady. Once inside, he was greeted by yet more activity: men actually working on the feed-water pump, for example, as well as other things he thought were already fixed. He also noted a dramatic increase in temperature. It was probably a hundred and twenty degrees.
Sweat gushed in the hot, humid environment, and he wiped it from his face and flung it aside to join the slimy black slurry coating the plates beneath his feet. The stench was unbelievable. It was the usual combination of bilgewater, sweaty bodies, mildew, fuel oil, and smoke. Added to those was something more like wet dog than anything else he could think of. Ultimately, the sum was greater—and far more nauseating—than the parts. He didn’t know how the ’Cats, with their more sensitive noses, could keep their breakfasts down. Number four was offline while repairs were underway, but the ’Cat burner batter on number three stood panting, ready to replace the plate if the fuel tender called for it. The ’Cat looked miserable, and Spanky honestly couldn’t see how the furry little guys stood the heat. When they began accepting Lemurians into the Navy as full-fledged crew members, he’d never dreamed so many would strike for the engineering spaces. It was just too hot and confined. He’d been surprised when he was swamped with applications. ’Cats loved machinery, and regardless of the environment, they clambered to be close to the most complicated examples—like the engines and boilers. Some couldn’t hack it. Even the ones that stayed, and apparently thrived, shed their fur like mad, and tiny, downy filaments drifted everywhere. Even though they tried to clean it every day, the slurry on the deck and catwalks was tangled with the longer stuff to the point that, from one end of the fireroom to the other, it looked like a clogged shower drain. Every time he entered the firerooms he sneezed, but the ’Cats that stayed were diligent and enthusiastic, and he couldn’t have done without them. Maybe some didn’t understand everything they were doing, but they didn’t always have to, and they treated him like some sort of omniscient wizard.
He listened for a moment, as they expected him to, and occasionally touched a gauge or felt a pipe. It was only his normal routine, but it always left them wondering what mystical significance the act represented. He stifled a grin and nodded friendly greetings before sending a couple of the least occupied above. Passing through the next air lock, he entered the forward fireroom.
“Oh, good God!” he exclaimed, when, looking up, he was immediately greeted by a pair of large, naked, and entirely human-looking breasts (if you could get past the fine, soot gray fur covering them). “How many times do I have to tell you to wear some goddamn clothes? At least a shirt!”
“It too hot!” Tab-At (hence, Tabby to the other Mice) declared. Somehow, her slightly pidgin English also contained a
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