A Meeting At Corvallis

construction sites in Salem, the old state capital thirty miles northeastward. Round towers half as high
again studded it at hundred-yard intervals as it curved away on either side to encompass the whole of the
little plateau that held Larsdalen.
Gotta get the inner keep finished before spring, he reminded himself. Work on fortifications was
another thing that they did in wintertime … Although there's always fifteen different things we should
be doing with every spare moment. Everything done meant something else nearly as urgent sidelined;
one thing that seemed universally true in the Changed world was that all work took a lot longer or cost
more or both.
The gate where road met wall was four towers grouped together on the corners of a blockhouse,
with his flag flying high above each. The drawbridge was down, but the outer gates were closed. They
were steel as well, a solid mass of welded beams faced on either side with quarter-inch plate and
probably impossible to duplicate now that the hoarded oxyacetylene tanks were empty. The surface was
dark brown paint, but this year for swank they'd added a great snarling bear's head in ruddy copper
covered in clear varnish, face-on to the roadway with half on either leaf. The Mackenzies had something
similar on the gates of Dun Juniper, though they used the Triple Moon and the head of the Horned Man.
Trumpets blared from above. Astrid brought her Arab forward on dancing hooves, throwing up one
hand in greeting.
"Who comes to Larsdalen gate?" the officer of the guard called down formally.
"The Bear Lord returns to the citadel of the Bearkillers! Open!"
"Open for Lord Bear!"
"Oh, Christ Jesus, how did we let her get away with this bad-movie crap?" Havel said—but under his
breath. "And now everyone's used to it and they'd be upset if we insisted on a plain countersign."
"She's the only theatrical impresario in the family," Signe said, also sotto voce. "Every time we did
something new, she was there to tell us how to manage the PR. Don't sweat it. After all, she's not home
much anymore."
"Ah, well, names are funny things," he said with resignation. "Someone has an impulse and then you're
stuck with them. That's why I've got a Karelian pedigree and a Bohunk moniker."
They both chuckled at the old family joke; back in the 1890s one Arvo Myllyharju had arrived in
Michigan's Upper Peninsula, fresh off an Aland Island square-rigger and looking for a job in the Iron
Range . The Czech pay-clerk at the mine had taken one look at the string of Finnish consonants and
said: From now on, your name is Havel!
His great-grandson remembered. Though will it make any sense to our kids? he wondered.
Finland might as well be Barsoom, to them, and Michigan about the same.
There was a solid chunk … chunk … sound as the heavy beams that secured the gates were pulled
back, and a squeal of steel on steel as the great metal portals swung out, salvaged wheels from railcars
running along track set into the concrete of the roadway. Winches grated as the portcullis was raised, and
the dark tunnel behind suddenly showed gray light at the other end as the identical inner portals went
through the same procedure, to reveal a cheering crowd lining the way. The gates were normally kept
open anyway in daylight, during peacetime; this was for show. Signe and Havel reined in beside the gate,
saluting as the infantry company went by, followed by the lancers. Feet and hooves boomed drumlike on
the boards of the drawbridge and echoed through the passage.
Havel looked up as he followed; there were flickers of lantern light through the gratings in the
murder-holes above, and a scent of hot oil bubbling in great pivot-mounted tubs.
"Always thought we could save some effort with those," he said. "Sort of wasteful, all that cooking
oil, and burning all that fuel, when all it does is sit there and simmer."
"They've got to be kept hot," Signe said.
"Yeah, but we could do French-fries in 'em. Maybe onion rings too … "
Dun Juniper, Willamette Valley, Oregon
December 15th, 2007/Change Year 9
There was a chorus of giggles from the sixteen-year-olds preparing their choir at the other end of the