Esther K Bowen

Welcome. Welcome. Come in out of that driving rain. Step into the warm light of the busy pub. Scrape the mud from your boots. Hang your coat by the door. The heat lamps will dry it quickly. I’m not just barkeeper, but owner of the pub. I established the Walrus and Carpenter well over twenty years ago, now. We always have that roaring fire to keep off the chill of the sea.

You’re a stranger to this planet. A new face, not yet hardened with this incessant rain. Did you come on the rocket? I thought so. The crew was in here earlier celebrating their leave, but they are all back now, and the rocket fresh loaded with ore. Now, you: you don’t look like crew. That gleam in your eye shows you’re not here for work. And, I can’t tell nothing from that dark overcoat you have not removed. Tourist? Ha ha. No, my joke. You a reporter?

Something like that, eh. Well, you have come to the right place. The locals haunt this place when the winds grow cold and the storms howl. I know we ain’t much to look at. You’re seeing the dregs. The ones left behind on this ocean world when the great spaceships left. Still, we do all right for ourselves. There is land here, despite what you all think on Earth. Our ships—for water, not space—are strong.

You want to hear a tale? Of course you do. That’s the only reason outworlders come to the Walrus and Carpenter. Look around the room. Past the smoke and the dim red glow of the heat lamps. Every soul here can tell you a tale to steal your sleep or make you a true believer. Just keep your cameras and your recording devices to yourself. We don’t share our stories with those who don’t understand. Those that don’t sit in the dark and hear the pounding of the surf over the drum of the rain. Out stories are not for the outside.