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of fact, but unlike many of the dwindling survivors of
Walker
,
Mahan
, and the old submarine S-19 on this world, he’d never closely followed the professional variety. He couldn’t recite team rosters or quote stats. He didn’t much care about all that and never had. He
did
care about the ball games between the various ships’ teams, however, and today his
Walker
s were playing the “Eastern League” champs from the Fil-pin shipyards: the Inaa Araang, or, roughly, “Rivet Drivers.”
    For just a while, Matt’s anxious mind could concentrate on something besides the vast war raging across the known reaches of this “other” earth. He could suppress his revulsion over the treachery and barbarism on the eastern front across the broad Pacific, or Eastern Sea. He could worry about something less tragic than the dreadful losses and strategic setbacks plaguing the war in the west. He could let his own plans—and painful wounds—sink back away from his foremost consciousness, if only for a brief rejuvenating spell. For a few hours, he could enjoy himself and all the people around him, human or Lemurian, who took the same pleasure and comfort from an admittedly serious contest, but one not designed to end in slaughter.
    The big game was underway in the main Maa-ni-la ballpark (one of three), in what had become the heart of the city. Once the area had been a kind of buffer between the city and its already impressive shipyards, almost a Central Park like Matt remembered in Manhattan. It was unlike the similar zone in Baalkpan, though, that pulsed with a never-ending bazaar. The closest thing in that distant city was the Parade Ground around Baalkpan’s Great Hall, which had become a peaceful refuge for those come to visit the war dead buried there. Again like Central Park, this had been a common area anyone could visit and use. The same still applied, but now there was a dirt diamond and impressive bleachers. The seats were protected by a backstop of woven wire from the new barbed-wire works—minus the barbs—and there was no wall on the far end of the field, just a chalky line no one dared cross on pain of eviction. Still, just as many Lemurians clambered for good spots beyond the outfield, hoping to catch one of the still-rare balls, as did those who packed the bleachers.
    It was a full house, and even the area around the ballpark was packed. Matt had grown accustomed to surrealistic scenes on this earth, but this was really weird. He was watching a genuine
baseball game
, played mostly by very feline-looking creatures covered with fur of every color or combination of colors imaginable. The sea of spectators reacted as any baseball crowd would, even if they were just as wildly colored and the sounds weren’t exactly right. Beyond the crowd, the shipyard had grown to a sprawling, all-encompassing thing no buffer zone could ever tame again. Masts of ships and coiling smoke and steam from mighty engines practically blotted out any view of Maa-ni-la Bay or distant Corregidor, and the Maara-vella Advanced Training Center, or ATC, couldn’t be seen at all.
    Matt knew the city behind him had expanded just as much. Already bigger and more populous than Baalkpan, Maa-ni-la had exploded. Initially flooded with “runaways”—people from other lands and seagoing Homes threatened by the ravening Ancient Enemy (the furry/feathery, reptilian Grik) who only wanted to escape the war—there’d been some . . . difficulty when Maa-ni-la joined the Grand Alliance. Most eventually realized they’d have to fight sooner or later, because after the Fil-pin Lands there was nowhere else to flee. This grew even more apparent when they discovered new allies across the great Eastern Sea—but more enemies as well. There were few “runaways” left, and, bolstered by its industry and broader resource and population base, all the Fil-pin Lands, and Maa-ni-la in particular, became a powerhouse. Baalkpan, where Balikpapan, Borneo, should