"Glad you do feel better, 'dapa," she said tenderly.

They went back into the kitchen. Sandy Rapczewicz had the oven door open and was standing over the turkey with baster in one hand and spoon in the other, looking irresolute. "I have the deck there, Ms. Rapczewicz," Alston said. "It's nearly ready, anyway."

"Thanks, Skipper," the XO muttered. She was still a little tender about the face, but the bones were knitting well, the rather lumpy Slavic countenance unaltered.

"The secret to a really good turkey," Alston went on easily, "is keeping the flesh moist-'specially with these lean wild ones."

The bird weighed about twenty pounds, the upper limit with the woods-caught types from the mainland the island was rearing now. She prodded a fork into the joint between drumstick and body. The juice ran clear. "Right, let's take it out and let it stand for a little while. Now everyone but volunteers out of the kitchen-this is the tricky part."

Getting everything to the table at the same time and neither overcooked nor cold was difficult.

"I feel as if I were mutilating my eldest son," Miskelefol said dolefully. "And this climate! It's bad enough in summertime. In winter the damp would rot the testicles off a Sardinian."

"You've seen what the Yare-the Eager-can do," Isketerol said cheerfully. A Tartessian crew was training on her, under the supervision of Walker's men. "Think what this will be capable of. And it keeps the men busy over winter."

Both men peered out the door of the hut. They had broken up the hulls of the Wave Treader and the Foam Hunter for their wood, and put up improvised stocks to hold the frame of another ship. One about two-thirds the Yare's size, considerably shorter but broader in the beam. Back home on the Middle Sea, a ship's hull went up first, with the boards fitted to each other tongue-and-groove, and the frame put in later as strengthening. The Eagle People method was to build the frame first, cut the planks straight, and then nail them on, twisting them as necessary. It was just as strong, and much easier… once you were used to it. The sailors practically had to be driven to it, full of mutterings about bad luck. Not to mention doubts that caulking would hold out the water, even when they'd seen with their own eyes.

The other cause of delay had been the need for iron smithwork. Isketerol looked out from the edge of his hut and smiled as the distinctive clang… clang came from another hut closer to the beach. Now he had two men of his own skilled in the ironsmith's art, at least the beginnings of it, and they were teaching others. And they'd helped with every stage of setting up the blast furnace, learning that mystery as well.

"When the Sea Wolf is finished, we'll load her with a cargo of sixty tons of iron, cousin," he said. He slapped the younger man on the back. "Then we'll sail her and Yare into Tartessos town and be richer than the king. You saw what tools and armor made of iron can do."

Turn a bronze spearpoint as if it were made of lead, for starters. Everyone will pay high at first, he thought. But the price will come down. No matter. He'd charge high prices to have his smiths teach the skills to begin with, and meanwhile sell widely.

And then… who knew what he'd do then?

The turkey was a skeleton, and the mashed potatoes, peas, squash, and carrots mostly memories-cherished memories, because vegetables were a strictly rationed luxury this winter, doled out in grudging lots to hold off scurvy. The pumpkin pie tasted a little odd with honey as the sweetener, but lacked nothing but whipped cream otherwise-milk was still worth its weight in gold, almost literally. Sandy Rapczewicz looked down at her plate for a second. 'Then she looked out of the corners of her eyes at Coleman, who nodded; Alston could see her gathering herself for an announcement.

"Think I didn't know?" she said, forestalling it.

"Yeah, well," she said. "We were… well, sort of waiting, you know, Skipper?"

Waiting to be sure we were here for good, Alston thought. Rapczewicz had been married, back up in the twentieth. But the Event was as final a method of divorce as death, and considerably more so than a decree nisi.

"Congratulations," Alston said aloud, glancing from her to Dr. Coleman. A bit May-September, but I'm not in a position to talk. "Just one thing, Sandy. Get married by all means, but if you get pregnant before this spring's operations, I'll perform an operation on you. A hysterectomy, with a blunt butterknife. I'm goin' to need my XO."

"Sure, Skipper," Rapczewicz said, grinning in relief. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

The guests joined in carrying the dishes back into the kitchen, then trooped back into the front parlor with drinks, and plates of dried-cranberrry muffins and cookies. Alston looked at them a little wryly. Lost in time, and we still play bridge and have Christmas dinner parties. It was such a workaday crowd, among the period-piece splendors of the mansion. One of the better things about the Event was that it had amputated the social pyramid at both ends, though. No masses of poor, and by definition nobody on the island could be rich these days.

They exchanged the gifts piled under a miniature tree, then Coleman sat down at the piano and began tinkling something vaguely Straussian from the book of sheet music someone had given him. Swindapa pulled her up by the hand and did a creditable waltz. Where the hell did she learn that? Alston wondered. They'd never danced together before; she felt rusty by comparison. Damn, this is nice. She really is graceful as a deer. Sweet-smelling, supple, strong, looking at her with that guileless smile she knew full well covered an unselfconscious, inventive randiness. Damn, and here I thought I was the cold, self-contained type…

Several of the other couples rose to dance as well. "Can I cut in?" Cofflin asked after a moment.

"Sure, but with who?" Alston said, smiling secretly to see him blush. "And who leads?"

"You were really warning Sandy, weren't you?" he said quietly as they danced off. His style was basic-competent. "I don't think fighting's an 'unlikely contingency we should be prepared for' with this British expedition, is it?"

"Hell, no." They swayed aside to avoid a table. "Should have cleared the room for this… Unlikely? No, not with Walker over there. If he's cleared out of Britain, that's one thing. If he hasn't…"

"You get to kick some Iraiina butt?" Cofflin said gently.

"I confess, wouldn't be the least pleasin' thing in the world." Her eyes touched Swindapa, where she led Ian Arnstein through the steps. "Think, though, Jared. King William Walker, wherever he is, is a deadly threat to us. We're not talkin' about a Lisketter here. He knows too much. The knowledge will make the locals dangerous to us, and if Walker gets enough power, he'll be dangerous to us-as the only potential limit to his power, he has to strike at us. It's the way he'll think, believe me."

"I do believe you," Cofflin sighed. "Worse luck. Ayup, I'll back anything within reason at the Meeting." His face hardened. "God damn Walker."

"May God damn him indeed. But I'll do my best to help."

"Friends come!" Walker shouted at the top of his lungs. "Friends come! Friends come!"

That was Iraiina law; if you didn't call out three times when you approached a steading, you were assumed to be hostile. In this case it was purely formal; Daurthunnicar's scouts had seen him some time ago. Several of them were mounted, with simple pad saddles and stirrups. Bastard trumpeted a challenge at their mounts, and he reined him in sharply; the quarterhorse swiveled its ears back, but he'd taught it to know better than to buck. Walker would still be very glad when there were a couple of his get old enough to break to the saddle-mares would do, a gelding by preference, of course. Riding an uncut stallion was taking machismo to absurd lengths.