Their Majesties' Bucketeers by L. Neil Smith

to be led.”
    There are several dozen parents I know of, including two of mine, from whom this speech would have had precisely the opposite meaning than its words conveyed. Not so from Mymysiir Viimede (née Kedsat) Woom, one of the Empire’s greatest surgeons—its first and only surmale one—and, I am extremely proud and happy to say, my own surfather.
    “I can’t imagine who might have sent such a message, Sasa. An anonymous tattler, really! But I have not abandoned paracautery or my ambitions to follow in your profession. On the contrary, they are precisely what has gotten me into the investigation of Professor Srafen’s murder, of which I am certain you have heard or read by now. Permit me to explain…” Thus for the next two hours, rhe and I discussed the events of the last twenty-seven. I found myself (as I have always done) telling rher everything, including the reasons I was home now and about to change out of the uniform I love.
    “I see,” rhe said at length, “and I approve entirely. This fellow Mav seems quite the most dashing you have ever—”
    “Oh, Sasa, that has nothing at all to do with it!” With no small effort, I regained control of the texture of my fur. “Well, very little, anyway.”
    Rhe crinkled rher fur again. “As you say. Whatever the case, I do believe that I may save you some steps today. But wait— Oh, Zoobon, there’s a good girl, do be a mefiik and pop over to the Cactus Rose.” Rhe handed her a few coins. “We’ll want the afternoon papers and a twist of that new Femean kood Mymy likes so much.”
    No sooner had the door shut behind the maidservant than my surfather rippled rher fur conspiratorially. “Now if I read your girl correctly, the extra change I gave her should afford us privacy for another hour. I was about to say that much of what young Mav has asked for in the way of information about Srafen’s family I believe I can provide. He’s quite right, of course; his Professor’s death has stimulated every sort of tale imaginable. Also, I’d be pleased to have you carry my bag this evening when you go to meet him, so that people will take you for a civilian physician.”
    “What will you do for a bag, then, Sasa?”
    “Why, I’ll simply trade the contents of mine into yours—I have another at my offices—and send yours back by messenger tomorrow.”
    “Oh, Sasa, you are too kind, really, and you think of everything!”
    “Not at all, my dear. I simply find all of this intrigue quite fascinating, and I’m very pleased to be of some help. Now let me tell you what I know—within the bounds of medical ethics, naturally—and you may compare it later with what you learn from others.”
    I do not believe I’ve ever had quite as much kood in one day as I was compelled to take that afternoon. At the time, I thought I’d be quite happy if I never smelt another burning wick again. My surfather bade farewell only after a lengthy conversation ending with rher assurances that my mother would eventually recover from the shock of having offspring who wished to live rher own life. Afterward I paid a number of not terribly exciting calls upon what seemed an endless parade of uncles, aunts, and eits, cousins of every variety, nieces, nephews, and nerries, all of whom my mother would have heartily approved in their useless idleness. These were distributed broadly from the palatially wealthy Upper (Most) Hedgerow—the parenthetical being added only as a gibe by those not living there—to the genteelly impoverished neighborhoods of Brassie, populated mostly by Navy pensioners and pantsleeve relatives of the rich.
    I also thought it wise to visit the Royal Mail office in Empire Point, where I was informed it would require some three months to have a telephone installed in my apartments—until I gave my family name, whereupon this estimate, like Pah’s alleged creation of lamviin, was instantly and miraculously reduced to “tomorrow afternoon.”
    While at the