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Master Gallowglass. We rather make a policy of not being too insistent about a man's past, on Wolmar. However, I do appreciate the finer aspects of narrative creativity. I was especially impressed with the piece about the costume ball."
    "Oh, yes! She's supposed to be Nell Gwynn, and I'm, uh—Cyrano de Bergerac!"
    "And I'm the King of England," Shacklar murmured, fighting a smile. "But as I say, a man's past is his own affair, on Wolmar. No one is here without a reason, and it's generally one that he'd rather weren't known." He shrugged.
    "Of course, in my own instance, I'm not terribly concerned about secrecy. Ultimately, I'm here because, in addition to being a psychiatrist, I'm also a masochist." Rod stared, then caught himself. "Oh, really?"
    "Yes." Shacklar smiled. "Quite well-adjusted—but it does

THE WARLOCK WANDERING
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    create certain problems within the chain of command. Here, though, my men don't seem to care terribly." Rod nodded, slowly. "I begin to understand why you don't mind staying."
    "There is some feeling of being appreciated." Shacklar smiled brightly. "But the mild exhibitionism involved in telling you that is part of my disorder, you see. I certainly don't ask that of anyone else."
    He leaned forward to glance at his desk readout. "However, I'm keeping you overlong; after so great a time in suspended animation, you must be ravenous. You'll find an excellent tavern just down the street."
    "Uh... thanks. General." Rod managed a smile. "You've been very helpful."
    He turned away to the door, holding it open for Gwen.
    "If there's anything we can ever do for you, just give us a yell."
    "As a matter of fact, there is one small thing your lady could do for me. Master Gallowglass."
    Rod stopped in mid-stride, a sinking feeling in his belly. He turned around again. Gwen turned with him, wideeyed. "And how may I aid you, sir?"
    "Slap me," said the General.
    Rod set down a small tray, and laid a plate of boiled sausage and buns in front of Gwen, with a tankard of ale to flank it. "Not much, my dear, but I'm afraid that's about the best Cholly's Tavern runs to." He sat down and took a sip of his beer. His eyes widened in surprise. "Not bad, though."
    She sipped, carefully. "Indeed, 'tis not! Yet wherefore is't so chill, my lord?"
    "Huh?" Rod looked up, surprised. "Oh, ,yh—they just like it that way, honey. That's all." He leaned back and looked about him, at the unfinished boards and the roughand-ready chairs and tables. "Sure not what I was planning on when I took you out for an evening alone." 36 Christopher Stasheff
    Gwen smiled. "Nay, assuredly 'tis not! Yet—oh, my lord! Tis all so new, and marvelous!"
    "It is?"
    "Indeed." She leaned over the table. "Yet tell me—what mean all these strange manners and artifacts? Why do all wear leggings, even though they have no armor to cover them? What were those odd, bulbous engines each man did wear at his hip, upon the Wall? And wherefore do they not wear them in this place? How do the lights within this inn come to glow? And where are the kegs from which they draw their ale?"
    Rod held up a hand. "Hold it, dear. One at a time." He hadn't realized how strange and new the technological world would seem to Gwen—but she did come from a medieval culture, after all. Secretly, he blessed the fate that had brought them to a frontier planet, instead of one of the overlycivilized, total-technology worlds nearer Terra. How to explain it all to her? He took a deep breath, wondering where to start. "Let's begin with power."
    "There's naught so new in that." She shrugged. "Once thou hadst told me there were no nobles, it was truly clear the peasant folk must needs set up orders within their own ranks, even as those Wolmen, who did chase us this mom, have done. Or the wild folk, who do war upon the cities—
    even as the Beastmen did to our Isle of Gramarye, ten years agone."
    The time-lapse hit Rod like a shockwave. "My lord! Was it really ten years ago?" He took a