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“Naturally. Of course. Also, ‘of a certes’. I piloted one such star-flyer here myself.” I paused, adding, “But it will not now return to the sky. It was not ever intended to. It has been burned, the ashes scattered by warriors. I have explained this before.”
     
    Queerly, the anonymous form squatted on its robe-draped haunches, frozen for a long moment as if in deep meditation. Then one of its identically-clad companions still out in the passageway approached the Bailiff.
     
    Coins clinked within the silence of stone walls. The Bailiff appeared to look both ways, then withdrew. Almost as if a switch had been thrown, the hooded figure halfway into our cell came to life again.
     
    “Demon,” it hissed, even lower, even more threatening than before, “If you wish to return to life, tell us how your thunder-weapons are fashioned.”
     
    So that was it.
     
    In the furious one-sided battle at the landing-site, I had somehow managed to kill or wound a handful of the animal-riders, their thin metal plating being worse than no protection against my fast-moving eight millimeter slugs. Staging single-handed gunfights with barbarian warriors had not been part of my job-description when I had signed onboard the Asperance. I was supposed to prepare the arsenal for the officers. Had I done so, perhaps we Vespuccians might have fared better.
     
    Instead, I had sat on a streambank, paddling my toes in a little brook. I had fiddled with my music, daydreamed about my girl, watched a couple of the moons rise, while, all the time, the enemy was coming to murder us. As an armorer, I had been much more useful playing the mandolar.
     
    In any event, my guns had been emptied in due course, confiscated by the brawling killers while I lay unconscious, the remainder of our ammo surely destroyed. Back home, in the Final Vespuccian War, I had done what the field-manuals told me, employing a fancy kit of gauges, drift-punches, screwdrivers, confident in the certain knowledge that replacement parts were never further away than our field resupply depot.
     
    I might be able to hand-make certain of the tools—screwdrivers are easy, even good ones—what I knew of manufacturing the Darrick 8mm Revolving Magazine Pistol could have been engraved upon the tip of the Bailiff’s back-up dagger with the chisel he had used to open the door.
     
    Naturally, I said: “Of course I can tell you. Nothing to it. I know all of the proper incantations. Burn me, I cannot teach you a thing.”
     
    The hooded speaker froze again, its companions likewise ceasing all movement in the hallway. Praying, maybe. Or thinking about a New Improved Holy Order of God’s Teeth, augmented with a little advanced military hardware. Old Vespuccian fairy tales told about such things: how, for example, Kalvan the Boss traveled back in time to teach the Olden People about modern machinery. That was before we learned that our Olden People had forgotten more about such things than we had ever known.
     
    The Baron would not be happy, I thought. Then again—I started trembling at the idea—perhaps these “thunder-weapons” of mine were religiously illegal. Perhaps the Bishop only wanted to assure himself that, by disposing of us, he was eradicating dangerous or forbidden knowledge.
     
    Well, either way, at least I would die warm. The cold down here, the vile dampness had seeped into my very bones. The insides of my lungs felt coated with the same fine mildew that garnished the cuisine. I would not last very much longer at this rate, whatever I chose to say. When they discovered the true extent of my technical education ...
     
    The faceless figure came back to reality.
     
    “This other demon—” Like an image of Death itself, the dark apparition gestured with a long, empty sleeve. “Knows it these things as well, the making of thunder-weapons, the guiding of sky-flying machines?”
     
    I coughed again, this time to give me time for thought. Lieutenant Enson