John of the Hawks flushed. “I am shamed. My home has been honored by being chosen to provide hospitality for travelers.”

The oldest, a heavyset, heavy faced man, said, “I am Skipper William Fowler of the exploration Spaceship Golden Hind. And these are three of my officers.” He indicated them. “First Officer DeRudder; Perez, First Engineer; and Mr. Harmon, my second.”

Harmon, who had put his hand on his weapon when John had entered, was seemingly not very much older than John himself, possibly twenty-five, and notable largely for a somewhat twisted, sardonic mouth.

Perez was a little man, and nervous of movement. De-Rudder, next in age to the one they called Skipper, was the largest of the four, which wasn’t saying much. None were more than six feet tall, so that even John, who hadn’t reached his full growth, towered above them.

Still flushing embarrassment, John said, “May the bards sing your exploits. My family is honored. My excuses for bothering you. Undoubtedly, you rest before the council of the muster. My claidheammor is at your command.” He turned to leave.

The one named DeRudder said, “Just a moment, son.”

Son? This was a term that could be used only to a fellow clannsman, and from an elder. Certainly the otherworlder couldn’t claim to be kyn of the Hawks. John was taken aback. However, he turned politely.

The other said, “In there. I suppose it’s a bathroom. That metal the faucet’s made of. What is it?”

John looked at him blankly, but now the conversation he had eavesdropped upon came back to him. It wasn’t quite clear just what the excitement had been about.

“Why, it’s called platinum, I believe. The Hawks are herdsmen, not scrabblers in the dirt or metalworkers. However, it is called platinum.”

There seemed to be a narrow eyed quality in all four of the strangers now.