Graft Among Elves

Today ...

 

            A human engineer company had bulldozed a not-insignificant portion of the Lothflorien biome. Although the survey teams were careful in site selection and left standing an ancient grove of beloved Mallorn Trees, the trees were not doing well under a continual assault of diesel and gasoline fumes and appeared to be dying. They were doomed anyway, after the accidental spill of 5,000 gallons of hi-test aviation gas into the formerly pristine River Running. To replace the grove, the Elven Queen already approved a new tank farm with a no-bid cost-plus contract awarded to one of the many new royally chartered metalsmith guilds.

 

            But that was a minor setback. Even before the engineers completed the main airstrip and a satellite field, an endless stream of transports began landing the material and personnel for the facility soon to be commissioned Air Station Gilthoniel.

 

            Finally work was completed and the wondrous day arrived. After a night of heavy downbursts and severe thunderstorms, the Sun broke through the clouds and bathed the Golden Forest of Swingin’ Trees in sublime luminescence.  Radiant Dawn and the West Wind danced a spritely jig across the hill tops and the high frequency antenna farm.  Rainwater, clothed in an oily rainbow sheen and gurgling with laughter, drained off the sealed runways.

 

            Then, cries of wonder and joy rose as one in song when sharp Elven eyes spied, roaring out of the Far West, a flight of Ara-planes, called Gru-mmans by the Humans but dressed in Elven Star-and-Moon livery.  The pilots were Human "volunteers" in Elven forest garb, full makeup and ear prosthetics.

A year ago ...

The human Traveler and his Aide kept poker faces, waiting on the Elven King as he examined the model ara-plane. Their well-worn, faded navy blue cloaks covered navy blue uniforms. He had been, in civilian life, an attorney and top contract negotiator for a Caribbean oil company with reputed mob connections, the Aide was on temporary assignment from the Secret Service. Although they had surrendered their swords and daggers (all of elven lineage) for the royal audience, the Aide's semi-automatic ceremonial hip buckler rested snug in its holster.

"And this is just a ... small version, a toy as it were, the real ones are ... ."

"Thirty-eight feet, wingtip to wingtip, Your Gloriousness, all things considered, well worth their weight in True-Silver."

"Indeed," said the King to his Elf-Queen. "Well worth it, a dozen or two of these -- machines -- could break the stalemate on the Dwarven Front."

The Queen looked at the Traveler, eyes of navy blue grappled with elven grey.  Her mind probed his thoughts, his heart. Her presence seemed to grow until it filled the audience hall with an invisible white light, her majesty itself manifest. But years of experience facing down banana republic war-lords and government prosecutors stood him well, and he did not flinch or look away.

"Tell me, Commander," she said, flushed and fanning herself after a half minute of embarrassed silence, while making the subtle but universal sign of rubbing her thumb across her index and middle fingers, "about 'kick-backs' and 'sweetheart deals'".