"A what?"
"A mover. Or he used to be, anyway. He used to want to move everybody down to the coast. Just piss away everything we've got here! Start building a whole new town from scratch—can you imagine?"
That was the first time I realized that the Pavan colonists were not the monolithic collection of lumps I'd thought them to be.
I should have expected it; that's the way it always is when you come into some new social group. At first everybody in it looks as though he belongs there. You're you and they're them, and it takes a while to see that each individual member of the them actually considers himself—or herself—to be a more or less unique one.
I had learned that lesson more than once before—in the clinic, for one; again when I first got to the Moon. Earlier than that, even: as far back as when I was eleven years old and my father scraped up the price of a church camp for me one summer. He couldn't afford the whole season, though. I got there two weeks into July, and all the other campers were well broken into their collective identity as the campers. They were all tanned, had all learned the words to the songs to be sung around the sundown campfire; all knew the daily routine, from wakeup bugle and dawn dash to the obligatory swim in Lake de Paul to bedcheck . . . and knew how to avoid either of those obligations when they wanted to. It took time for me to know that some of the boys were there for the canoeing and others for riding the broken-down race horses from the camp's stable—and a lot of them just because their parents couldn't stand having them around the house for another minute—and, most of all, that none of them was exactly like any of the others.
So it was on Pava. The colony was a collection of unconsolidated factions. There were the movers, who wanted to get out of the earthquake zone; the empire builders, who wanted to breed Pava to a billion-strong new Earth; the industrialists, who thought everybody should live on dry bread and hopes until the colony had dug mines and built factories and made itself self-sufficient and strong.
And there was one other group: the defeated. The ones who had put their names on the long list of Pavans who wanted nothing more out of the colony but a trip back home.
They did all have one thing in common, though—I mean the Pavans who weren't Millenarists and hadn't gone off on the retreat. They were beaten down and discouraged, yes, but they still wanted things changed. And I began to feel pretty sure that, when the postponed town meeting did get held, there would be some unpleasant surprises for Captain Garold Tscharka and his buddies.
After the third day of the retreat the work got easier. The Millenarists began to trickle back to their jobs, half a dozen at a time, then forty or fifty in a clump. They looked drained but happy—anyway, they did up to the time when they began getting the feel of the ferment that was building up in Freehold. Then they stopped looking so happy.
Oddly, their leaders hadn't come back with them. Tscharka, Tuchman, Queng and two or three others were still out there in the hills—"Conspiring," Theophan told me darkly at breakfast. "They'll be up to something, Barry."
"Like what? The meeting's only three days away."
She shrugged. Marcus gave me a sunny smile, and to Theophan a look of fond confidence. "We'll be ready for anything they come up with, won't we, Theo? So don't worry." And they left to get a head start on overhauling one of Theophan's cranky remote sensors. I wasn't invited.
I didn't mind. I was just as happy to stay in Freehold, where I could talk to people—especially after I found that I had drawn an easy, if unaesthetic, day's work checking the levels in the town's outhouses.
Geronimo showed up to go the rounds with me, quite curious about the whole procedure. He didn't offer to help. He didn't get in the way, either. He'd caught another of his flying-rat playthings and was tossing the little thing back and forth in his tiny hands, watching silently as I lifted the toilet seats and peered in. When the level was comfortably low there was no problem; when it had risen to anything less than a meter and a half below the seat I made a note on my screen. That meant that someone would have to fill it in and start another hole before long. I hoped it wouldn't be me.
After an hour or so of that I stopped and looked at the lep. "You could give me a hand, you know. How about lifting the lids for me?"
Geronimo turned those huge eyes on me. "Not necessary. Easy work, one person is plenty. Anyway, all humans now returning."
I puzzled out what he was saying. "You mean you leps just came to help out because we were short-handed?"
"That is exact," he agreed.
"Well, thanks," I said, thinking it over. It was true that during the retreat there had been a lot more leps in Freehold than usual, as many as a hundred, I guessed, against what was generally no more than a dozen or two.
I asked idly, "How many leps are there, anyway?"
Geronimo reared back, twisting his body to peer down the street. "Three," he reported.
"No. I don't mean just here. I mean all you leps."
He sank back, plucking a head of fern from the side of the street and nibbling it. "Many, Barrydihoa."
"How many?"
"Many," he insisted. "We play gin soon?"
"No, we don't play gin. We work. All day long—well, except right now it's getting about time for lunch, isn't it?" He didn't answer that. He just made an exasperated hissing noise, tossed his flying rat into the air—it wobbled as it flew away, no longer in very good shape—and went off to seek his own food elsewhere.
That was all I could get out of Geronimo on the subject of the lep population, but I was luckier with Jacky Schottke. I saw him sitting by himself, morosely eavesdropping on the conversations of a group of returned Millenarists. They must have known he was there, but they were conspicuously keeping to themselves, ignoring him.
Everybody else was sociable. Half a dozen people wanted to talk to me about the factory orbiter, but when I'd finished with them I joined Jacky. In a way, I thought it was an act of kindness. I didn't think he enjoyed his regrets.
When I asked him about the leps he seemed glad of the change. "Oh, there are lots of them, Barry—a whole continent full. Tens of millions, anyway. Maybe a lot more than that."
"But the ones we see—"
"Are only the locals. There's a lep nest up in the hills with hundreds of them; they're the ones who come down. The funny thing about the leps, if you're interested," he said, warming to his subject, "is that they're all the same species. That's surprising, when you think of the distances involved, but even the ones on the far side of the continent seem to be genetically identical with the locals."
"We're all the same species too, and we have a lot more distance to cover."
"We're not leps, are we? Up through the fifth instar they hardly ever travel more than a few kilometers. So it has to be that some of the sixth-instar leps are wanderers. They fly long distances, so the genes get distributed."
"So they have a whole planetwide civilization?" I ventured doubtfully.
That startled him. "Good heavens, no, Barry. What gives you that idea? The six-star leps can't transmit anything but their own bodies—no customs, no information, nothing cultural. They've lost all their memories by then, you know. They're pretty much idiots—horny idiots."
"Are you saying that leps on the other side of the continent could have a completely different kind of society?"
He thought that over, pulling at his sparse hair. "I wouldn't think so. Most of their behavior seems to be genetically programmed . . . but we'll never know unless we start going out and exploring again," he said finally. "It's been thirty years since we had a working long-range aircraft. Barry? I really hope this idea of yours works out."
It stormed again on Saturday. I don't mean just rain, I'm talking about a real rouser of crashing thunder and fierce lightning and winds that took down trees in the hills. People stayed indoors as much as they could, and what they mostly did with their time was talk about getting the factory in high gear. There were some fierce arguments going on all that day, and I was in a lot
of them.
I'd been pleased, if startled, to find out that Jacky Schottke was coming over to my side. He wasn't the only one, either. It began to look as though some of the returning Millenarists were tempted too—even my neighbor, the very recently bereaved widow lady from the downstairs apartment, Becky Khaim-Novello.
That was a real surprise, in more ways than one. I barely knew the woman. I'd hardly even seen her after her husband hung himself, and yet on Sunday morning, as I was coming back from breakfast, she caught me at the door and offered me a cup of real coffee.
I'd had it in mind to check the news broadcasts from Earth again, but she made the offer sound tempting. It would be, she promised, a better cup of coffee than anything the community kitchens could provide because it came out of their own private stock, brought all the way from Earth because Jubal loved coffee so much . . . but she actually preferred tea herself and now, with Jubal gone—
She was smiling and almost flirtatious as she invited me in. It seemed only neighborly to accept.
Well, there was more than a cup of coffee involved there, of course. For me there was the fact that Becky was reasonably nice looking and young and now wholly unattached. It was pleasant to sit in her kitchen while she put the coffee on and set out cups and a little dish of cakes she'd brought back from the breakfast. For Becky—
Maybe part of what she had in mind really was me myself, as a reasonably nice and clearly available male. I'd like to think that, anyway. However, I got the impression very quickly that she was also interested in picking my brains, because her conversation wasn't date talk, it was interrogation. Was I sure that this factory orbiter could use the antimatter from Corsair? Would it really be necessary to destroy Captain Tscharka's ship? What components of the ship, exactly, would be useful to the factory? And even if the ship were scrapped and salvaged, wouldn't there still be some elements that weren't in Corsair, so there'd still be serious supply problems?
I wasn't sure exactly what she was after, but I gave her all the answers I could, anyway. The most reliable answer to most of her questions was that the only way we could find those things out was by giving it a try. When the coffee was gone she thought that over for a moment, then stood up and thanked me politely for clearing up those matters for her. "Probably we do have to do something," she said, giving my hand a friendly squeeze at the door. "I guess it'll all get straightened out at the town meeting. Anyway, this has been really nice, Barry. Drop in again anytime you feel like talking. Good-bye."
Whatever her motives, widowhood seemed to sit lightly on Becky Khaim-Novello. As I headed for the receiver station—the antenna had taken some serious hits from the winds in yesterday's storm, and I was concerned about whether it was still functioning properly—I thought I probably would take her up on her invitation to come again before long. It wasn't that I particularly liked the woman; it was my glands, which were quite urgently suggesting that I ought at least to find out whether I liked her—or anyone female, for that matter.
I was thinking further along those lines when I noticed that Geronimo had joined me. He plopped himself directly in front of me and raised himself to full height. "Candy today?" he inquired.
I was prepared for him; I'd formed the habit of keeping a couple of hard sugar balls in my pocket for him. Though I urged him to suck on the one I gave him to make it last longer, I could hear it scraping against the grinding surfaces in his mouthpart. When he had it swallowed he announced, "The God person is back, Barrydihoa."
"Which one?"
"The old one. White hair on head and face. He is over by river, with children."
I decided that checking out the receiver could wait. If Jacky Schottke was leaning toward my side and Becky Khaim-Novello seemed, anyway, more or less neutral, I wondered if I couldn't try a little persuading on Friar Tuck.
I wasn't particularly confident of success. Corsair was more or less Tuchman's ship, too—Tscharka called him his chaplain—and he was certainly friendly with the captain. But revitalizing the factory wasn't a religious matter, as far as I could see. And, I admit, I was curious to see what Geronimo had meant about "children."
There were five or six of them gathered around him, waiting for a boat that was coming to take them downstream for some fruit gathering. The old man was doing conjuring tricks for them. They seemed to like it. So did he. They squealed with pleasure when he took pebbles out of their ears and made them vanish again, and when the boat pulled up and they got ready to board, he seemed regretful. He gave them all a good-bye hug before turning to me.
"Well, Barry," he said, cordially enough, "it's nice to see you. You look surprised. What is it?"
I tried to say it as politely as I could. "I didn't think Millenarists had much to do with children."
"Why would you think that? We love children, Barry. We're a church of love. You should come to our services someday."
I gave him a firmly noncommittal shrug for an answer, which made him smile. Then he sat down on a bench overlooking the water and beckoned me to join him. "I've been hoping we could have a chance to talk about some of the things you've been saying. Do you think it's really essential that you destroy Corsair?"
By then I'd had a lot of practice answering that sort of question, so I gave him the spiel. It wasn't a matter of losing the ship but of gaining more of the things we needed. More equipment. A better power supply. Maybe a space tug. Maybe, in the long run, a whole new lease on life for the Pavan colony. He listened gravely, only interrupting to ask for clarification on a point or two. Then he said, "I can see that you've got the interests of all of us at heart, Barry. I truly appreciate that. I can't help worrying about some of the dangers involved, though."
That was a new one. "What kind of dangers?"
"We're dealing with antimatter here. A lot of it. You're the closest thing we've got to an expert on the subject, and maybe you've thought it all through, but what would happen if something went wrong and it all exploded?"
"Well—" It was a fair enough question and I thought about it for a moment. "If it happened while the orbiter was overhead it would produce a lot of radiation, that's true. But it would be just as likely to happen when it's on the other side of Pava, and then we probably wouldn't feel any effects at all. Except, of course, there wouldn't be anything left of the factory. But it won't happen."
"You're sure of that?"
"Certain sure. I've done a lot of transshipping, Friar. I don't make mistakes like that."
"I'm sure you'd exercise all possible care, but still—Well, suppose it didn't explode in orbit. What if Jillen or Garold miscalculated and the whole two hundred pods fell to the surface of Pava?"
"They wouldn't!"
"We certainly hope not," he agreed, "but none of us are more than human, and human beings do sometimes make mistakes. Wouldn't it explode?"
"Well, I suppose so, sure, but—"
"And then what? Could two hundred pods of antimatter destroy the planet?"
"No. Of course not. It would certainly do a lot of damage, even as an air burst—if it were anywhere in this hemisphere it would kill a lot of organisms. But it would be a lot more likely to fall into sea, and then—" I stopped there, thinking. I was remembering some of the theoretical problems they gave us in training: what would happen if some lunatic diverted a catcherload to Earth. And then we had been talking only about a dozen pods or so.
"Well," I admitted, "an ocean impact would be serious, no doubt of that. An undersea explosion would certainly produce some giant tsunamis, at least. I suppose anything anywhere near a shore would be destroyed, and then there would be radioactive water vapor that would spread over a large area—I don't know if it would reach here. But if it did, we'd probably die."
He nodded soberly.
I thought I knew what was in his mind. I assumed he was trying to prepare arguments against using the antimatter in the factory, probably to bring up in the meeting. (I was wrong about that, of course, but I didn't find that out until a good deal
later.) So I gave him truthful but cautious answers, winding up with, "Anyway, the antimatter's there in orbit now. There's a hundred pods of it sitting in Corsair's hold, not counting what the next ship will bring. If it's a danger at all—and I don't think it is—those hundred pods are a danger already. All I'm suggesting is that we put it to a good use."
"Ah," he said, "but that's a question itself, isn't it? What's a 'good use,' Barry?"
"Come on, Friar. A good use is making things better for everyone on Pava."
He nodded. "So we'd be more prosperous and better fed and equipped; so the colony would increase and thrive. Is that a given, Barry? Is making it possible for more and more people to be born necessarily a good thing?"
That was when I began to get really uncomfortable. "I guess," I said, "that now we're getting into the area of religious belief, aren't we?"
"No, Barry," he said gently. "We've been there all along. It's all a matter of religion, and it doesn't really matter what you would like or what I would like. It's what God would like that's important."
18
THE term "factory" is not completely understood by us. What is a "factory" ?
A factory is a place where we make things. Don't you people ever make things?
Of course. We make items that are needed, such as shelters for protection against storms. In the old days we made them from broad leaves; now we make them more frequently from discarded bits of your parafoil textiles. No "factory" is involved in such work; they are made by persons.
Home handicrafts, sure. We have that too.
But you also have the "factory" machine. We conceive that this machine operates like a fruit vine, producing useful things without the labor of a person, except that it can "manufacture" whatever sort of fruit you desire. Yet this cannot be correct for, if it were true, why does your "factory" not make your "medicine"?
The Voices of Heaven Page 20