[pshrynk]

The fight had slowly wound down and ultimately ended when the Shore Patrol had finally made an entrance. Sam imagined that elsewhere in the world, there were Shore Patrols who waded in to bar fights with glee and batons, but not in Havana. The Shore Patrol here was very understanding of the needs of the entrepreneurial taverner and allowed some leeway according to the desires of the location.

Sam was quite happy with replacing the tables and chairs and some glassware on a frequent basis. The expense was offset by the general popularity of his bar for the sailors and Marines from the Fleet. And, occasionally there was the odd dollar lying around as he swept up. You just couldn't keep track of everything in your pockets when you're flying across the room in an unconscious state.

Over by the bar, Armistice groaned awake and looked around to see if he needed to keep fighting. Satisfied that he did not, he picked up Patrick's beer and slowly poured it over its owner's head. Vivaldi was still tangled up with that missionary. Sam felt that he needed to do something about that dog. Having barroom brawls occasionally was one thing, but having them started by a talking dog with a drinking problem was, in Sam's mind, unseemly.

The Professor was in the center of the room, helping a couple of still stunned sailors put a table back together. It was one of the new ones that Sam had designed to collapse under the weight of a body without causing damage to the structure. It looked to save him a lot of cash at some point.

The woman who had entered just as the fighting peaked was sitting at one of the un-collapsed tables by the window. She had order something called a Cosmopolitan and had given very specific instructions as to how to do it. Somehow, Sam had been reluctant to give his usual response to such requests. "I got vodka and soda water and you'll like it!" seemed to be a certain route to a broken bone or two.

Sam went back behind the bar, lacking any finding of stray dollars on the floor. The professor came up and said, "As you were saying?"

Sam pointed at Armistice, who was moving his jaw back and forth with his hand. "Professor Slopeton, Armistice Walker."

Armistice looked up from his reveries on how he had managed to be on the losing end of a fist for the first time in years. There was a vision of unbearable beauty in there somewhere, but the details were foggy. Just then a man in a white linen suit came up and proffered his hand. Armistice had never really been proffered anything in his life and he was somewhat confused.

"Augustus Slopeton, PhD, at your service, sir!"

Armistice looked down at his hand, which was pumping violently up and down and managed to get out, "Armistice Walker. Pleased to meet you."

"How does one come to have a moniker of 'Armistice?' It's hardly a normal name."

"Well I was named Samuael Langhorne Walker by my parents, who had a fascination with literature. I got the name 'Armistice' because I was born on November eleventh. I was shot down over Germany in the Great War and was in a prisoner camp for five months. On my eighteenth birthday we got let loose. Everyone around me at the time kept telling me it was all because of my birthday and it became 'Armistice's Day' form then on. The name stuck."

"Plus it would cause no end of confusion with our friend Sam here, eh?" Slopeton gave Armistice a wink that could only be described as lascivious. It was amazing that that sort of thing could be injected into that particular conversation.

"I suppose so. What sort of professor are you, Professor?"

"Archeology! The science of the future! As well as the past, eh?" Again with the wink. Armistice figured it was a character flaw.

"Ah. How nice."

"Precisely!" There didn't seem to be an actual connection between what each participant in the conversation was talking about. "And now, I find that I am in need of a pilot and plane. Sam, here, tells me that you are a pilot with a plane in need of an archeologist, what?"

Now the funny talking man in the white suit had Armistice's attention. "Maybe," he said. It didn't pay to be too enthusiastic under these circumstances.


　
Constance sat at her table and wondered how she was going to make contact with Professor Slopeton. He was a man, so the obvious route was availabe, but the recent definitely not a Knack experience had rattled her a bit. She sipped the passable Cosmopolitan that the bartender had quickly whipped up. a bit heavy on the cranberry juice and short on the vodka, but the grenadine was just right. She'd have to work on his technique if she stayed around these parts for very long.

The man with whom she had definitely not had a moment was now speaking with Slopeton. She could hear that the conversation was about the professor needing a pilot. Suddenly, it hit her how she could get in on the conversation. It was going to be distasteful. And painful. But it had to be done. She stood up and walked toward the pair at the bar.
　
　
"I wonder if you need a qualified transcriptionist, as well, Professor?" Said Constance, horning in on the conversation.

Armistice looked at her and said, "Gna!"

Vivaldi staggered to the bar and started to drink his beer, which Sam had set on the floor for him. "Looks like you're going to need a room," he said.

"Shh!" said the humans.