Turtledove & De Camp Down in the Bottomlands

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"Oh, you mean a plea of good will. That's not usually used in a freerighter's court, but I don't see why
you can't. What's your excuse?"
"You see, your honor, I've been living out in Dakotia for many years, and I've rather gotten out of
civilized habits. But I'll catch on quickly enough. If you want a character reference, my friend Ivor
MacSvensson will give me one."
The judge's eyebrows went up, like a buzzard hoisting its wings for the takeoff. "You ken Thane
MacSvensson?"
"Oh, sure."
"Hrrrmph. Well. He's out of town. But uh if that's so, I'm sure you're a good burger. I hereby
sentence you to ten days in jail, sentence withheld until I can check your mooding, and thereafter on your
good acting. You are free."
* * *
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Like a good thane's thane, Eric Dunedin kept his curiosity to himself. This became a really heroic task
when he was sent out to buy a bottle of soluble hair dye, a false mustache, and a pair of phoney
spectacles with flat glass panes in them.
There was no doubt about it; the boss was a changed man since his reappearance. He had raised
Dunedin's salary, and except for occasional outbursts of choler treated him very considerately. The weird
accent had largely disappeared; but this hard, inscrutable man wasn't the bishop Dunedin had known.
Park presented himself in his disguise to the renting agent at 125 Isleif. He said: "Remember me? I was
here this morning asking about a room." The man said sure he remembered him; he never forgot a face.
Park rented a small two-room apartment, calling himself Allister Park. Later in the evening he took some
books, a folder of etchings, and a couple of suitcases full of clothes over. When he returned to the
bishop's house he found another car with a couple of large watchful men waiting at the curb. Rather than
risk contact with a hostile authority, he went back to his new apartment and read. Around midnight he
dropped in at a small hash house for a cup of coffee. In fifteen minutes he was calling the waitress
"sweetie-pie." The etchings worked like a charm.
* * *
Dunedin looked out the window and announced: "Two wains and five knicks, Hallow. The twoth wain
drew up just now. The men in it look as if they'd eat their own mothers without salt."
Park thought. He had to get out somehow. He had looked into the subject of search warrants, illegal
entry, and so forth, as practiced in the Bretwaldate of Vinland, and was reasonably sure the detectives
wouldn't invade his house. The laws of Vinland gave what Park thought was an impractically exaggerated
sanctity to a man's home, but he was glad of that as things were. However, if he stepped out, the pack
would be all over him with charges of drunken driving, conspiracy to violate the tobacco tax, and
anything else they could think of.
He telephoned the "knicks' branch," or police department, and spoke falsetto: "Are you the knicks?
Glory be to Patrick and Bridget! I'm Wife Caroline Chisholm, at 79 Mercia, and we have a crazy man
running up and down the halls naked with an ax. Sure he's killed my poor husband already; spattered his
brains all over the hall he did, and I'm locked in my room and looking for him to break in any time." Park
stamped on the floor, and continued: "Eeek! That's the monster now, trying to break the door down. Oh,
hurry, I pray. He's shouting that he's going to chop me in little bits and feed me to his cat! . . . Yes, 79
Mercia. Eeeee! Save me!"
He hung up and went back to the window. In five minutes, as he expected, the gongs of the police wains
sounded, and three of the vehicles skidded around the corner and stopped in front of No. 79, down the
block. Funny hats tumbled out like oranges from a burst paper bag, and raced up the front steps with
guns and ropes enough to handle Gargantua. The five who had been watching the house got out of their
cars too and ran down the block.
Allister Park lit his pipe, and strode briskly out the front door, down the street away from the
disturbance, and around the corner.
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