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bags showed under his eyes in the uneven electric lighting illuminating the cavernous structure. Matt realized there were a lot of electrical machines inside as well, more than he’d seen in one place on this world before. It was probably much the same in Baalkpan now. He’d been away a while. Motors whirred and rumbled, and sharp cutters and serrated blades blew wood chips all over the place. A fine haze of dust swirled in the shifting air, blown by big fans that roared like
Walker
’s blower. Hundreds of dusty ’Cats and ex-pat female “Impies” operated the machines, heaved taglines on prefabricated structures suspended from hoists like those on the hangar decks of the great carriers, or weaved their way purposefully from place to place.
    Matt caught Gray staring at a particularly well-endowed woman pulling on a line, her perfect, naked breasts swaying mesmerizingly with the effort. She wore nothing but a skimpy breechcloth. Lemurians considered clothing ornamental or occupational and wore as little as they could when working. The formerly virtually enslaved human women felt the same. Matt doubted he’d ever grow comfortable with that, but he’d become somewhat desensitized. Of course, he was married now too. Gray wasn’t—and the older man was currently considerably flustered by the attentions of an exotically beautiful young woman named Diania. Diania, now officially a steward’s mate, was Sandra’s friend and, increasingly, secretary. Gray had also been teaching her to fight, with and without weapons, and she was considered part of the Captain’s Guard now as well. Young enough to be his
grand
daughter, Diania had a serious crush on the old Bosun and it was growing clear that Gray was . . . not entirely himself . . . around the girl either.
    Matt coughed at him, and Gray blinked. The air smelled of wood, glue, and solvents, and Matt was glad to see more fans mounted high in the walls, providing ventilation. His gaze narrowed and focused on the purpose of the impressive facility. “There they are,” he said, feeling almost surprised. Beyond the closest construction was a long, staggered, double row of amazingly familiar hulls in various stages of completion.
    “Yes, sir,” said Winny, his hand extended. Matt looked at it a moment before taking it. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rominger,” he said, smiling. “I got distracted.” They had to speak loudly over the racket.
    “He might’a been expectin’ a salute too,” Gray jabbed.
    Matt shook his head. “No, Boats, I wasn’t. Mr. Rominger’s elected not to join our Navy, and that’s entirely up to him and everybody else who was in his . . . situation.” He grinned. “Besides, we’re indoors!”
    “Uh, no offense, Captain Reddy,” Winny interjected, “none meant at all . . . but I joined the old Navy, and that didn’t turn out too well for me.” His expression grew haunted. “We did our best, even after we ran out of boats. But the brass
made
us surrender to the Japs.” He shook his head and stared at the floor. “They weren’t even on Mindanao yet,” he added harshly. “We should’ve kept fighting, even if they killed us in the end. It would’ve been better than what happened. And a lot of fellas died anyhow.” He looked Matt in the eye. “No, sir. I know the score here and I support your Navy and what you’re doing, but I’d just as soon fight this war as a civilian.”
    Matt nodded seriously. “That’s your decision. But nobody’ll ever get an order to surrender to the Grik or Doms, Mr. Rominger, not from me or anybody.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    Matt gestured at the hulls with his cane and started forward. “You were in MTB Squadron Five, correct?”
    “Ron-Five, yes, sir,” answered Winny as the group moved toward the closest hull. This one wasn’t planked yet and the framework was impressive in its simplicity.
    “Well, you’ve certainly captured the lines of your old PT boats.”
    “Yes, sir,” Winny agreed.