By galactic standards, the resulting spacecraft were grotesque in every way. Nor was that simply a matter of appearance. They were not airtight, for instance. Because of the force-screens, of course, they did not need to be. But no proper galactic vessel would have taken the chance of relying on force-screens to maintain atmospheric integrity.

But Tambo did not mind in the least. As a South African, he was accustomed to the whimsies of history.

And besides, there were advantages.

He turned away from the viewscreen and gazed through the window of the bridge. A real window, that was-just plain, ordinary glass-looking down onto the vast, flat expanse where Tambo enjoyed his daily jogging. No galactic spaceship ever built-ever conceived-would have provided him with that opportunity.

The huge flight deck of the CSS Scipio Africanus.

Formerly, the USS Enterprise.

“The boarding party’s leaving,” he announced.

Commodore Trumbull turned away from the viewscreen and joined him at the window. The two men watched as the boarding craft lifted off from the flight deck-no hurtling steam catapults here; just the easy grace of galactic drives-and surged toward the force-screen. There was a momentary occultation of the starfield as the boarding craft’s screen melded with that of the Africanus. A moment later, the boarding craft was lost to sight.

“Jesus H. Christ,” muttered the commodore. “A complete idiot.”

Tambo could not resist. He did a quick little dance step and sang, to the tune from Fiddler on the Roof: “Tradition!”

Trumbull scowled and glared at the viewscreen. The boarding craft was already halfway to the Guild vessel.

The CSS Livy, as she was now called. Naming her after a historian, thought the commodore darkly, was appropriate. He had protested bitterly. Bitterly. But the Naval Commissioning Board had been seized by the rampant historical romanticism which seemed to have engulfed the entire human race since the return of the Roman exiles.