August 20, 1937
0930:

        Ranua had checked into the transient dormitory as soon as Broome had dismissed him and tried to get some sleep.
        The five statements that he’d read kept nagging at him though, making relaxing enough to fall asleep a largely futile endeavor.  The statements were accompanied by the question, “What am I getting myself into?”
        As a result he was yawning and his eyes were bloodshot when he returned to Broome’s office several hours later.
        The Vice-Commodore looked almost as bad as the younger fur felt, and Broome waved a languid paw toward a chair.  There was a pause as the fox took a deep drink from a large coffee mug.  He smacked his lips as he remarked, “Sit down, Ranua, and I’ll tell you a few more things before we send you back to Spontoon.”  He took another drink of his coffee.  “First, I want to apologize for Lucien’s behavior.  It is a military operation, true, but you’re fairly new and not a fieldpaw, so I felt that you had a right to refuse if you wished.  However, all of our field officers are on other assignments, and cannot be spared for this.  Second, are you keeping in shape?”
        Ranua suppressed the urge to ask just how many field operatives Broome had.  It was a very closely-held secret, and nothing he should concern himself about.  The question would have taken Ranua by surprise several days ago, but now he flicked his tail and replied, “I’ve been trying, sir, but between classes on Meeting Island, work and Miri – “  His voice trailed off lamely.  He wasn’t showing any spread as a result of a sedentary job yet.
        Yet.
        “Say no more, I get the picture.”  Broome thought for a moment.  “And knock off that ‘sir’ crap all the time – we all work for a living too, y’know.”  He couldn’t resist smiling as the memory of all the rank-based punctilio he had to endure while in the American Navy came back to him.
        But, back to business.
        “Much as I hate to do it, I want you to take some time away from your mentoring.  We need you to spend more time in the base gymnasium and in paw-to-paw combat exercises.”  The older fur smiled again, this time in commiseration.  “We’re doing a hard thing to you, my boy, but we need you for this assignment and we need you at least close to the same condition as the rest of the team.”
        “Who will the rest of the team be . . . Richard?” Ranua asked, leaning forward slightly in his chair.  “I . . . didn’t do so well in my last command, as you may have heard.”
        “I heard.”  The two shared a brief laugh.  “They’ll arrive in Spontoon about a week before the operation is to begin,” Broome replied evasively.  “And don’t dwell on that slip; learn from your mistakes, but don’t obsess over them.  Now, your actual orders and the details of the mission will be sent on after you leave.  Various preparatory and research materials have already been sent by ordinary mail.”  He grinned.  “Just a little hiding in plain sight.
        “Finally, security: Until your orders come in you are to speak of this to no one, do you understand?  Rule Sixteen definitely applies.  Not even your wife - or your mentor - is allowed to hear about this.”
        “I understand.”  Ranua stood up, his ears dipping in a slight blush.  He wasn’t yet married to Miri, but didn’t want to correct the fox.  And a violation of Rule Sixteen would guarantee that, even if he were married, he and Miri would likely never see each other again.  “If there’s nothing else, Richard, thank you and I’ll see about my transportation back to Spontoon.”
        Broome looked up at the younger fur, his face going grim and looking older than his years. 
        As the pause lengthened, the fox found himself hoping he was doing the right thing. 
        He stood up slowly and offered his paw.  As Ranua shook the paw Broome said, “May your gods protect you, my boy.”


Moon Island
August 22:

        Miri came home and paused as she put her books down on the small table in the living room.  Ranua’s small suitcase was there, unopened, and she could hear snoring coming from the bedroom. 
        “Ranua?  Ranua, are you – oh,” she said as she entered the bedroom and saw him sprawled facedown on the bed, fast asleep.  He was still dressed in his jumpsuit uniform.  She chuckled softly before shaking her head and walking into the small kitchen to prepare dinner.

        His nose twitched perhaps a half-hour later, and he slowly came awake.  The first thing he noticed was a delicious scent that sent his mouth watering.
        The second thing he noticed was the smell of cooking food.  He opened his eyes and sat up, rubbing a paw across his face and noting that he was no longer dressed. 
        Either Miri was home, or he had some more explaining to do.
        He pulled on a pair of shorts and, a paw absently ruffling his chest fur, walked into the kitchen.  He smiled as Miri turned away from the stove and said, “Well!  Hello, sleepyhead.  Dinner’s almost ready.”  She kissed him and asked, “When did you get back?”
        He returned the kiss, hugging her tightly as he replied, “I think it was just after lunch.  I’m sorry for falling asleep without calling you, but I hardly got any sleep on the plane.”  He sniffed at what was cooking and smiled.
        “Well, what did you have to go to Seathl for, anyway?” Miri asked, and at the look on his face added, “You can’t tell me, is that it?”
        “Yes, that’s it,” he said.  “I’m not allowed to tell anyone about it – not even you.  It’s – well, it’s one-that-must-not-be-named,” he said, using a Spontoonie phrase. 
        Miri nodded, her expression serious.  The way he had said it implied that not even a priestess would be allowed to hear of it until the time was right.  “Even from the others here, or your mentor?” she asked.
        “Even from them,” he said.  He disengaged himself from her embrace and said, “I’ll set the table for dinner.”
        “No,” she said firmly.  “You get washed up, and I’ll set the table.”  He grinned, and both started laughing as he headed off to the bathroom.
        Dinner was pan-fried fish with some vegetables that Miri had picked up at the island’s market on her way home and steamed while the fish had been cooking.  As they ate Ranua asked, “How are things going at the hospital?”
        His fiancée smiled and took a sip of her iced tea before replying, “Wonderful.  It’s something I want to do, and some of the instructors say that I’m good at it.  I should graduate and get my license before our son is born.”
        Ranua paused and looked up at her, an unnoticed piece of fish falling from his fork to land short of the plate.  “Son?” he asked while he scooped the piece of food out of his lap.  “How can you be certain?”
        Miri giggled at the look on his face.  “I’m just guessing,” she admitted, “but I have thought of dragging you over to Main Island and asking a Wise One.”
        “She might not tell us,” Ranua pointed out.
        “True, she might not,” Miri said, “but she might, and I’d really like to know.”
        “After dinner?” he asked. 
        “Sure.”


Meeting Island
August 23, 1937
0750:

        Miri had been wrong.
        The Wise One had politely but firmly refused to make any attempt to divine whether she and Ranua were going to have a boy or a girl.  “There are some things that must be left to the gods,” the woman, a slim weasel, had replied.  “Let things come as they come, and love your child.” 
        Of course, that advice was wasted on both of them, for they were determined to do exactly that.
        Ranua had gotten up early and had arranged a series of morning sessions at the base gymnasium with an expert in unarmed combat before boarding a water taxi for Meeting Island.  He paused at the entrance to the Constabulary station and stretched, stifling a yawn as he walked in.  “Good morning,” he said to the desk sergeant.
        “Hi, Ranua,” the burly feline replied.  The terrier might be in the Syndicate, but he was still Spontoonie.  “Got a package for you.  It come in the mail yesterday.”
        “Oh?”  As Ranua watched the sergeant rooted around behind his desk and emerged with a bulky package wrapped in brown paper.  “Here you go,” the constable said, passing the parcel to the wirehair terrier.
        “Thanks.  Is the Inspector in yet?”
        “Should be coming in – Good morning, Inspector!” the feline said as the whitetail buck limped into the station.  Sergeant Brush was a step behind the older fur.
        “Good morning, Sergeant,” Stagg said, and smiled as he saw Ranua.  “Well, Mr. Milikonu, you were missed these last few days.”
        “I apologize, sir,” Ranua said.  “I was called away.”
        Stagg nodded.  “So I surmised.  Well, come on back,” and he followed Brush into the corridor that led to the Detective Bureau’s office. 
        The burly fox that was Stagg’s right paw sat down at his desk and took a deep sip of his coffee, then sighed contentedly.  “Gotta give it t’Miz Baumgartner, sir – ain’t no one else on Meetin’ makes coffee this good.”
        “She’s definitely made Luchow’s a popular place, Sergeant,” Stagg remarked, nodding.  He looked at Ranua as the younger fur sat down and asked, “So, Mr. Milikonu, are you at liberty to discuss where you went and what happened?”
        “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not allowed,” Ranua said uncomfortably, not wanting to hide anything from Stagg.  He busied himself with opening the parcel he’d been sent.  From the postmark on it, it had been mailed from Seathl a day before he’d been ordered to talk to Broome.
        That bothered him somewhat. 
        “Not allowed?  Ain’t he yer mentor or whatchacallit?” Brush asked.
        His paws rested on the package and he turned in his seat to look at the fox.  “Until I’m told otherwise, it’s a must-not-be-named, Karok-son-Karok,” Ranua said in Spontoonie.
        Brush nodded his understanding, then asked, “And when will that be, Ranua-son-Tama?”
        “When my superiors allow me to tell him,” Ranua said.  He refused to let himself be intimidated by the slightly shorter but more heavily muscled vulpine.  He finished opening the parcel, aware of Stagg’s eyes on him.  “I’m sorry, sir,” he repeated.
        “There’s no need to apologize, Mr. Milikonu,” Stagg said.  “I understand the need for operational security.  Loose talk can cost lives,” he added.
        Ranua nodded, then frowned as he opened the parcel and took a look at the contents.  Within the brown wrapping paper were a collection of magazines, journals and newspapers.  He blinked at the titles until he realized that the language was Russian.
        Stagg noticed his ‘apprentice’s’ nonplussed look and glanced at the collection of periodicals.  “They sent you some reading materials,” he observed, reaching for the top one.  “Hmm . . . Klon,” he said, translating the title before studying the contents page.
        “What’s that?” Brush asked.
        “It means ‘Clown,’ Sergeant, and it’s apparently a humor magazine from Vostok Island,” Stagg replied as Ranua looked at him curiously.  “Yes, Ensign?”
        “I wasn’t aware you spoke Russian, Inspector.”
        Brush chuckled.  “He’s fulla s’prises, kid.”
        “I started studying it after I finished my service in the Great War,” Stagg said, “mainly to read criminological journals . . . but I’m afraid the grammar in those publications is a far cry from what’s written here,” and he shook his head.
        “I see what you mean, sir,” Ranua said, his ears dipping as he read a few pages of another issue.  He held it open to Brush to show him a cartoon of three ungroomed savages supposedly representing Spontoon, Tillamook and Rain Island. 
        The cartoon earned a growled insult in Spontoonie from the fox. 
        “I don’t understand why I was sent these,” Ranua remarked, glancing at a few other titles.  The parcel was made up of several humor and so-called ‘social commentary’ magazines.
        “That question’s easy to answer, Ensign, if you give it a moment’s thought,” Stagg said.  “Your superiors in Seathl want you to learn about Vostok Island.  There are three ways of doing that.”
        “And those are, sir?”
        Stagg gave a wintry smile.  “First, by actually going there.  Of course, you’d only see what the authorities wanted you to see, and if you tried to see anything else you might just meet with an unfortunate accident.  Or you could rely on their government media, which will very likely tell you the same thing.
        “Now, these are the third avenue.  Humor publications, particularly in repressive regimes, are used as a way of expressing opinions with government sanction, true; but they also have quite a bit more room in which to make social commentary and point out abuses.”
        “A bit like a safety valve?” Ranua asked.  “It prevents discontent from running rampant, by channeling it?”
        “Precisely,” Stagg said, “and I see that they’ve included copies of Orel, or 'Eagle', the state-run newspaper.  That should give you a check on what they’re printing in these humor publications.”  His eyebrows rose and his ears drooped as he scanned an essay.


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