This was more like it. The beer tasted like beer, although it was of an interesting green color. The soldiers crowded close, hanging on every word we said, so I chomped my jaw to get Tremearne’s attention and made my report to him in the form of a speech.

“Gallant warriors of Paradise-we are overwhelmed by your greeting. You have welcomed we drug-ridden convicts as heroes to your fair land. You ply us with food and drink and, by your loud cheers, I feel we have a beautiful future here.”

“I certainly hope so,” Tremearne’s voice said inside my head. “But until you find out the score on this male female thing I am ordering Madonette to stay where she is.”

“I agree completely,” I called out. “Don’t you agree completely, guys, that this is the warmest welcome we have ever received?”

My companions nodded without interrupting the flow of food and drink and there were gurgled shouts of agreement from all sides as more beer vanished. I was wiping my lips with the back of my hand when Ljotur reappeared.

“I have talked to Iron John himself who summons you to his presence soonest. But until the Chariots of Fire appear could you-oh, would you! – play us a number!”

His words were drowned out by hearty masculine cries of joy

“Let’s set up for a quick gig, boys-these guys deserve it.” I looked around. “Any requests?”

Many were shouted, but “Nothing’s Too Bad For the Enemy” seemed to be most popular. Best choice too since it had an all male lyric. Loud thunder rolled while lightning flared and sizzled. Our fans fell back into an appreciative half circle while we let fly.

Death and torture and murder and rape

WE LIKE IT! LYRE LIKE IT!

Cutting and slashing and murder and looting,

Hacking and cracking and stabbing and shooting.

Blowing up slowing up showing up to kill

Arson and cursin’ done with a will

’Cause…

NOTHING’S TOO BAD FOR THE ENEMEEE…

Drinking and drinking and drinking and drinking

Shouting and cursing and lying and stinking

Chasing girls grabbing girls huggin’ and kissin’

Showing girls all the things they been missin’…

As can easily be imagined this delicate flower of a lyric rally went down well with the troops. They were still cheering when there was a hissing rumble behind us and we turned to see that our transportation had arrived. Perhaps the locals were used to these things but it was really eye-bugging time for the tourists.

“Only for special occasions, special people,” Ljotur said proudly.

We gaped in silence, lost for words. There were two of the vehicles, made of wood and decorated with gilt scrolls and strands of jewels. Each had a single wheel in front which was steered by a tiller. This was manned by the driver who rode high above. I looked at the closer one. A wide seat was in the middle and there were two wheels to the rear. All of which was pretty commonplace-not counting the pricey decoration -if you did not allow for the propulsion at the back. This was a shining metal tube, now crackling and emitting an occasional puff of smoke. I drew my attention away from it as the ornate door was thrown wide. I stepped in and seated myself on the soft cushions. Floyd and Steengo were ushered reverently into the other vehicle. Doors were slammed and Ljotur shouted a command to the drivers.

“You’re off? Fuel on! Frapu viajn startigilojn! Drivers hit your starters!”

I saw now that there was a metal tank under my driver’s seat. He reached down and opened a valve and I could hear the gurgle of liquid in the pipe. Then he stamped down on a pedal; the starter I guess.

No-it just started the starter. The pedal pulled on a cord that ran on pulleys to the rear of the chariot. This lifted and dropped a small hammer that banged the starter on the shoulder. This was an individual, dressed completely in black, who sat on a little platform slung behind the wheels. Not only dressed in black, but with blackened arms and face, his hair a burnt stubble. I soon found out why. Liquid was now dripping from the metal tube and the starter reached out and touched a match to it, jumped back as it ignited. A tongue of black smoke and flame leaped out to the rear, singeing the soldiers who weren’t quick enough out of the way.

Now the starter was grinding away at a handle, presumably pumping air into the primitive jet. Within seconds the roar grew louder, the flame longer-and my Chariot of Fire shuddered and began to slowly roll forward. Very showy. Though it probably only got about a mile to a hundred gallons. I waved cheerfully to my fellow victims, who waved feebly and fearfully back. Relax Jim, sit back and enjoy the ride.

It was hard to do. I admit I did not see much of the passing scenery, being too involved with thoughts of survival. Nor did I relax until our little convoy had stopped and the blowtorch behind me was extinguished. The chariot’s door swung open to the blast of discordant horns. I grabbed up my pack and stepped down onto a gray stepping block.

Which was resistant but soft. I turned and looked and saw that it was not a step at all but a man dressed in gray, kneeling on all fours. He rose and scurried off, along with another human footstep. Midgets, about as tall as my waist and almost as wide. My companions had reacted as I had, our eyes met but we said nothing.

“Greetings,” a stentorian voice bellowed. “Welcome, welcome visitors to Paradise.”

“Thanks much,” I said to the tall and barrel-chested man who was draped in gold cloth. “Iron John, I presume?”

“Most flattering-but you presume wrongly. Musical guests, kindly follow me.”

The trumpets blared again, then the trumpeters opened ranks. Three gray-clad men hurried up and took our packs. I started to resist, then made the reluctant decision that it would be all right. The reception we had received at the archway had been too spontaneous to be planned. Our gold-clad greeter bowed to us, then led the way. Towards the brick steps of a brick building.

If the Paradisians were short on building materials they certainly weren’t bereft of architectural imagination. Tall pill pillars capped with ornate capitals, rose up to support the archive of a complex entablature. Just like I had been taught in Architecture 1. To either side tall windows opened onto wide balconies. And all of this done in red brick.

“Looks great so far,” Floyd said.

“Yes, great,” I agreed. But I looked back to make sure the porters with our packs were right behind us. And I still had the concussion grenades in my pocket. No one ever got into trouble by being prepared-as we used to say in the Boy Sprouts.

Down a brick corridor over brick paving we went. Through a brick doorway into a great and impressive room. It was colorfully lit by the sunlight that streamed through the ceiling-high, stained-glass windows. Colorful scenes were depicted there of armies marching, attacking, fighting, dying; the usual thing. This motif was carried through to the walls which were hung with tattered battle banners, shields and swords. Robed men who stood about the room turned and nodded to us as we entered. But our guide led us past them to the far wall where there was an elevated throne, made of you-know-what, on which was seated the tallest man I have ever seen.

Not only tall-but naked.

At least he would have been naked if he had not been completely covered with rusty, reddish hair. His beard cascaded down his chest – which was covered as well with hair. Arms and legs and, I couldn’t help peeking when he stood, hair all down his belly and crotch as well. This was all that was visible since he was wearing a sort of jockstrap or sporran woven out of, well possibly, his own hair. All of it the color of rusty iron. I stepped forward and. bowed a little bow.

“Iron John… ?”