50 in 50

"Is the murderer. And he is undoubtedly punishing himself every hour of the day much more than we could ever do. I'm telling you this so you won't start thinking after I have gone and figure it out for yourself. And send in a report. The King's culpability will not appear in my final report. If it did he would have to be arrested. As it stands now the balance is straight and everyone is happy. At least on paper. I'll tell the Empress the truth — off the record — just as I am telling you. I won't need to swear her to secrecy as I am swearing you now. Raise your hand and touch the scroll."

"I so swear. ." Commander Rissby repeated numbly, still shocked. He finally stirred to life and tapped the report. "But this— the roast leg of beef Mello got from the kitchen — what was wrong with that?"

"Use your imagination, Commander," Petion said with barely concealed disgust. "He brought this joint of meat, still steaming hot in insulating foil, unwrapped it and dropped it in front of the Princess, right there on the table. He was so stupid, he thought he was doing her a favor, letting her try some good food for a change."

"Yes… I know what he did. But why should the King kill him for a harmless thing like that?"

"Harmless?" Petion sat back and laughed. "These people are strict vegetarians with an absolute horror of our eating habits. Just try to put yourself in the King's position. Let's say that you invited a cannibal home for dinner — he's reformed, but still a cannibal. And he has never quite understood what all fuss was about. So he does you a favor, trying to introduce you to a whole new world of enjoyable eating.He drops a nice hot, steaming, crackling human arm on the table in front of you right in the middle of the meal! What would you do, Commander?"

After the Storm

The tide was on the way out, leaving a strip of hard sand that felt good to jog upon. The sun, just clear of the horizon, was already hot on my face. Last night's storm had finally blown itself out, although the long Atlantic rollers were still crashing onto the beach with its memory. It was going to be hot, but the sand was still cool under my bare toes as I jogged along easily, the last surge of the surf breaking around my ankles. I was very much at peace with the world: this was a good time of day.

There was something that caught my eye ahead, dark against the white foam. Driftwood, very good, it would make a lovely fire in the winter. It was a long plank with something draped over it. As I splashed toward it I felt a chill down my bare back, a sudden fear.

It was a body, a man's body.

I did not want to look too closely at this waterlogged corpse. I hesitated and stopped, with the water surging about my legs, unsure of what I should do. Phone the police? But if I did that it might wash out to sea again while I was away. I had to pull it in — but did not want to go near it. A wave surged up and over the body and strands of seaweed tangled in the long hair. The head lifted and dropped back.

He was still alive.

But cold as death. I felt the chill when I seized his hands and dragged him, a dead weight, through the shallow water to the beach. Dropped him facedown, his forearm under his mouth and nose to keep them out of the sand, then leaned hard on his back. And again— until he coughed and gasped, emptying his stomach of sea water. He groaned when I rolled him onto his back and his eyelids moved and opened. His eyes were a transparent pale blue and they had trouble focusing.

"You are all right," I said. "Ashore and safe."

He frowned at my words, and I wondered if he could understand me. "Do you speak English?"

"I do. ." He coughed, then rubbed his lips. "Could you tell me the name of this place?"

"Manhasset, north shore of Long Island."

"One of the states of the United States, is it?"

"You're Irish?"

"Aye. And a devil of a long way from home."

He struggled to his feet, swaying, and would have fallen again if I hadn't caught him.

"Lean on me.” I said. "The house isn't far. We'll get some dry clothes on you, something warm to drink."

When we reached the patio he dropped onto the bench with a sigh. "I could do with that cup of tea now," he said.

"No tea — what about coffee?"

"Good man. That'll do me fine."

"Cream and sugar?" I asked as I punched in the order on the keyboard on the wall. He nodded and his eyebrows rose as I took the steaming cup from the dispenser. He sipped it gingerly, then drank deep. He drained the cup before he spoke again.

"That's a miraculous yoke you have there. Could you do it again?"

I wondered just where he was from that he had never seen an ordinary dispenser before. I dropped his cup into the recycler and passed him a full one.

"From Ireland," he said, answering my unspoken question. "Five weeks out of Arklow when the storm caught us. Had a load of cured hides for the Canadians. Gone now, with the rest of the crew, God rest their souls. The name is Byrne, Cormac Byrne, sir."