“You’ve heard it before?”
“Patrols at the granary mentioned ’em on the machines garaged there. Nothing moves at night so it’s safe to haul in supplies then. Go on. Tell me more about the rescue. That first contingent were too damned wiped out to do more than say they got rescued.” He poured her more of the hot drink.
“Remind me to tell you how glad I am to be in the same outfit with you, sarge,” Kris said with a grateful smile.
“Ah!” and he dismissed her remark with a flick of his hand, turning his head briefly away in modesty. Then he grinned at her. “Wait’ll you hear what I got in mind for you tomorrow.”
“So long as it’s tomorrow, sarge,” she said, managing to produce a cocky grin despite her present fatigue. The drink was helping but the stimulation it provided wouldn’t last very long.
“We got thirty-five more refugees.” She looked about the camp. “Can we handle them?”
“Handle as many as we can find. Picked up a few more coming south from another dropoff. They either picked the right sort of fields or were plain lucky. They were right glad to find our camp. We’ll need all the reinforcements we can get to start our offensive.”
“Our what?” She peered numbly at Mitford.
“You don’t think I intend spending the rest of my life on this mudball,” Mitford said with a growl.
Kris shook her head. Mitford seemed so sane. And he was planning to get off this world?
“But that’s for later. Any new useful recruits?” he asked, bringing her back to her report.
“Well, I suppose so, but I didn’t think to quiz ’em. We’ve got one very pregnant woman and an older one who’s not too spry. Zainal made me come on ahead.” Mitford nodded and Kris looked back over her shoulder to see the rest of her group straggling in.
“The two guys in front are good people, Irish, the Doyle brothers. Right behind them is Joe Lattore and he’s okay.” She paused, seeing Aarens stumping in behind the Italian.
“And the tall individual?”
Kris hesitated long enough for Mitford to raise his eyebrows. “Name’s Dick Aarens,” she said as noncommittally as she could.
“I’ll debrief him myself,” Mitford said with a grin for her reluctance. “You go get yourself some rest, gal. You’re off duty for the next twenty-eight.” He pointed above his head at what she then recognized as a sundial. “Took the team three days! All the way from counting sand particles by the second to hourly divisions. Rough still, they say, and Greenwich mean time it ain’t, but it’s an improvement.” His tone was prideful.
“All the comforts of home and time, too,” she said, grinning at such a clever device.
“Not that a twenty-eight-hour planetary revolution is an improvement on what we’re used to.”
“And the stocks? Your idea?”
Mitford chuckled, without even looking up from the notes he was jotting down. “We got too many individuals,” and by separating the word into syllables, he made it sound like an epithet, “to deal with who won’t make life easier by disappearing when they don’t like the way this outfit is run. Get some rest, gal.” He gave her a good-natured buffet to her arm and jerked his head toward the cave.
She was halfway to the steps when he called the newcomers over, the Doyles startled to hear their names and Aarens giving her an accusatory glare.
At the top of the steps, she noted other signs of organization—workstation along the ledge and the legend “Home Sweet Cavehome” scrawled in chalk across the entrance. On the space where people had written their choice of name for the planet, “Botany” was underscored and all the others erased. She grinned. Home now had a name.
Inside, the early-morning crew were busy stoking fires, putting earthenware pots on trivets to heat, setting out slightly misshapen bowls for cereal. She noticed bowls of what looked like coarse salt by the hearths. On the ledges were other pots and pitchers: Sandy Areson had been very busy.
“Kris!” a voice shrieked and she was enveloped in Patti Sue’s arms before she had a chance to evade the girl, who proceeded to weep all over her.
“I told you she’d be back safe, Patti,” said Sandy, coming over and prying the girl off. “Now she’s tired, and dirty, and you don’t go moaning all over her. She’s been just fine, Kris,” Sandy added. “She was certain Mitford had put you in danger.”
“No, we got people out of danger, Patti,” Kris said, “and there’s a woman who’s going to need your help especially: Anna Bollinger. She’s very pregnant. Sandy, who’s the medic to see to her when she gets in? They’re a couple of hours behind us.”
“I’ll see to that. You hungry, Kris?”
“Had a bar not long ago but I’d sure love a bath.”
“I’ll get a clean coverall, and do yours while you’re sleeping,” Patti said, gushing with her efforts to be helpful.
“Now, Patti, you’re on breakfast detail.”
“I know, I know,” the girl said on her way to a pile of material stacked on one side of the cavern. “I’ll just be sure she knows the latest improvements.”
Sandy raised both hands, grinned reassuringly at Kris, and went back to stirring the pot. Leakage sizzled into the fire, but even that primitive attempt at a pot was an improvement over no cooking vessels at all.
“No chance at building a kiln for you, is there?” Kris said, realizing that the pottery must only be sun-dried.
Sandy’s grin was beatific. “Mitford knows his priorities. Got the ‘specialists’”—and she grinned—“working on a beehive type. Murph made bellows for me as well as for his own forge. Jack the Nail found a nice hard wood that ought to burn hot. So we’re cooking. And I am until I get that kiln up and firing.” She gave Kris a humorous grin as she waved smoke away from her face. “Go bathe.”
Patti danced about Kris all the way down to the lake, telling about finding the clay and that she’d managed a cup or two that had been fired, and they needed a proper kiln for best results, and they had discovered a nearby crop field of some very tasty root vegetables that were almost like potatoes only the Deskis couldn’t eat them at all without getting violently ill. Kris grimaced as she hadn’t remembered to tell Mitford that Coo had found a plant that was Deski-edible. The tunnel to the lake was now well lit. When she and Patti reached it, there were also wooden steps down, a well-lit area, and a rack of pegs to hang clothing on and a rough reed basket of cattail-like seed pods.
“Where’d you find reeds?” Kris asked, noting the construction of the basket.
“Oh, Bob the Herb did. He finds all sorts of good stuff. Has two patrols under his command.”
“And what’re these?” Kris picked up one of the pods.
“You’ll see,” and Patti Sue giggled with anticipation of her surprise.
Then Kris saw that a raft had been anchored securely for safer bathing and there were even steps fastened to the side of the lake. So Kris stripped off the smelly, grimy coverall and slipped into the water.
“Here,” and Patti handed her an oval pod. “It’s not exactly soap and it’ll ruin your complexion but it gets the dirt and…smells…off your skin.”
Kris would have welcomed a Brillo pad, which was what the pod felt like. There was an odd herbal—almost astringent—smell off it and that was quite welcome after what she had been smelling like. She rinsed well and then clambered out of the water.
Patti, with an air of great accomplishment, then broke open one of the cattails, which puffed up into a white fiber.
“Your towel, madam?” She grinned at Kris’ surprise. “It works, too, soaks up all the water. Then we put the used ones over there, in the other basket, and once they’re dry, they’re good fire-starting material. Clever, aren’t we?” And she giggled as she handed Kris the fresh coverall.
“I think we need the twenty-eight-hour day to get everything done,” Kris murmured.
Considerably refreshed and cleaner, Kris was quite ready now to get the rest her body urgently desired. She yawned all the way
to the cave. That had improved, too. With beds made of mounds of branches and, she thought, filled in with more of the cattails.
She stretched herself out, turned to her right side, sighed with relief to have her sore hips cushioned, and never even felt the blanket which Patti lovingly spread over her.
Chapter Seven
THE AROMA OF ROASTING MEAT ROUSED KRIS, ALTHOUGH her stomach was probably sending the message. It was empty. She could hear muted voices, pleasant voices; and, encouraged, she angled herself up out of the flattened bed. One other sleeping accommodation in her cave room was occupied by a sleeper and she slipped into her footwear as quietly as possible and left.
Neither Sandy nor Patti Sue were in the main cave, but she spotted Bart and approached to see if she could scrounge a meal off him.
“Hey, Kris,” the man said, smiling a welcome, “you did great!” and he dished up some of the food he was cooking onto a nearly round clay plate.
“Me? At what?” she asked with a cautious grin. When he also handed her a wooden fork, she exclaimed in surprise, “All the comforts of home.”
“We’re improving. And I mean the rescue of all those folks trapped by the mechanicals.”
“Oh, that. That was Zainal. He knew how to open the doors.”
“Yeah, but I ask myself, how did he know how to open them?”
“Aw, c’mon now…Bart!” And Kris quickly donned her public relations hat. “He knew how, so what? Maybe I could have opened it, given a hairpin or a credit card which I didn’t have. Door catches are door catches: there are only so many ways to lock one. He figured out the mechanism and opened it. The important thing is that he did know how and we could get all the others out before they got slaughtered.”
“I heard…” Bart began uncertainly.
“What you heard and what happened could be two different things entirely. Who did you hear from?”
Bart shifted uneasily. “One of the guys that came in with you.”
“Wouldn’t be named Aarens, would he?” Kris asked, letting her tone drip with scorn. “Next thing you hear, he’ll be saying we oughtn’t to listen to Mitford ’cos he’s a slave driver, a martinet, endangering us, who does he think he is, when he was only a sergeant at that, and what does he know?” Kris waved her arm around, at the well-organized kitchen area, the pots and pottery, the water crates, people moving about at assigned tasks. “Well, Mitford knows enough to organize us to an amazing degree of self-sufficiency, I’d say. Aarens is a troublemaker and he started almost the moment we hauled him out of that barn.”
Bart glared at Kris, resenting her tirade, so she smiled at him.
“You’re too smart to fall for that kind of drivel, Bart, and this smells too good for me to let it get cold.” She sat herself down on a convenient rock and started to eat. “Now, can I give you the facts, nothing but the facts, about the great slaughterhouse rescue? I’d hate for you to have a bad opinion of me because I stuck up for the guy responsible for saving forty-five people, forty-six if Anna has her baby.”
The expression on his face told her it wasn’t her he had a bad opinion of, which meant she really needed to put the record straight.
“Well, maybe what I heard was a bit garbled…”
“Scariest moment in my life was waking up in that barn,” she said, giving a shudder, and was still answering his questions when Jay Greene spotted her.
“Sarge needs you, Kris,” he said.
“Great meal, Bart,” Kris said, standing up and then looking about her for the proper place to dispose of her plate and fork.
Bart grinned as he pointed. “Outside, to your left. Aarens himself is on kp.”
“No better man,” she said and left the hearth with Jay.
“I’ll take that,” Jay said, removing the plate from her hands. “You don’t need to meet Aarens.”
“Why? Is he bad-mouthing me? Or Zainal?”
Jay snorted. “Don’t worry. Mitford has his measure.”
“Does everyone else?” Kris asked urgently. “Hell, he’d’ve been better off—we’d be better off—with him as sausage meat after all,” she added callously.
“He’ll spend some time in the stocks if he keeps up.”
“Which will only confirm his opinion of this chickenshit outfit.”
“Who cares?”
“Speaking of caring,” and they were now outside in the bright sunlight. Mitford was precisely where she had left him a good—she checked the sundial—nine hours ago. “Does he never rest?” Her question was hypothetical, for she went on, “How’s Anna Bollinger, our pregnant lady?”
“Doc says she’ll be fine. Although she’s grieving for her husband.” He paused to click his tongue over that tragedy. “Janet’s making her her special assignment…Janet and Patti Sue. Was that girl raped?”
“I suspect so.”
“She never said anything?”
“It’ll take a long while before she’s able to talk about whatever it was happened to her.”
“Oh?”
“You like her?”
“She’s a sweet kid,” Jay said, shaking his head, with a “gone” smile on his face.
“Go as slow as slow.”
“I figured that.”
Kris went down the steps while Jay turned left toward the crates where Aarens was clumsily drying cups with cattail fibers. They must have found a humongous supply of the things for them to be used in so many different ways.
The man in the stocks was gone and Kris wished she’d thought to ask Jay what his offense had been. Was that why he’d asked had Patti Sue been raped? Mitford had meant what he said about punishing harassers.
Kris heard steps on the stone behind her and, looking over her shoulder, saw Zainal with Slav and Coo right behind him. She wondered if they shared a cave. All of them looked clean and rested.
“What are you guys doing up so early?” she demanded.
“I slept much,” Zainal said, grinning back at her, his marvelously weird yellow eyes echoing his good humor. “Slav and Coo well rested. Lot to do.”
“Lots to do,” she corrected him absently, then hastily added, “but you’re real quick to learn.”
“Need to learn,” he replied, his smile broadened.
“Ve all learn,” Slav said in his liquid voice. “Hi, Krissss,” he added, emphasizing the sibilant.
Just then the Deskis on the heights let out the whistling alarm and slid, as suddenly, down out of sight.
“Fliers?” someone cried anxiously.
All activity in the camp was suspended. A beat later, everyone out in the open made for caves. Kris looked skyward, pivoting as Zainal, Coo, and Slav were, to scan the horizon. So was Mitford, in his exposed position on the floor of the ravine.
Coo gave an odd and earsplitting cry, which was echoed from above.
“Large thing,” the Deski said, spreading his arms to their farthest extension, indicating great size. He rolled his eyes. “Baaaaaaad. Bad, bad, bad, bad,” he repeated, shaking his head and then covering his ears tightly. But that was as much to mask the noise, which was becoming very, very loud—like half a dozen subway trains converging on you and every one of them clanking and grinding and needing full servicing—as to stress the approaching danger. Kris thought the intensity of the sound was comparable to standing in a continuous sonic boom. Her bones began to vibrate right up to her teeth. Even the stone under her feet reverberated.
She wanted to ask where was the noise coming from and what made it, but she wouldn’t be heard above that racket.
The shadow of it came first…longer and wider by far than the ravine: even the hill the ravine dissected. The shadow came on and on, and then they saw the blunt prow of the leviathan that growled and rumbled and still made the very stones shake.
It was coming in, prow definitely aiming downward, on a descending slant: several thousand feet above them, Kris estimated, blotting out the sun like an island-sized umbrella. A big island, with all kinds of protuberances, long and t
hin, squat, rounded disks, with all kinds of sticklike rods planted here and there, even on the massive belly doors that were acres long and wide. It seemed to take hours to pass overhead. By then, inured to the noise it made, people were outside again, peering up at the monstrosity. Their curiosity was stronger than their initial panic.
By then Kris had followed others to the nearest height—Mitford, Zainal, Jay Greene, Slav, Coo, the Doyles led the way, joined by half a dozen other men and women who wanted to get a good long look at this vessel.
“It’s heading in the direction of the slaughterhouse,” Kris yelled above a slightly diminished noise.
“Yeah,” Mitford said thoughtfully, rubbing his hand over his mouth, his expression very thoughtful indeed. “Recognize it, Zainal?”
Zainal shook his head slowly, never once dropping his eyes to look at Mitford.
“Catteni have no ship that big.” He seemed as impressed by the size of it as everyone else. “Strange…” He rolled his hand, trying to find the appropriate word.
“Configuration?” Jay asked.
Zainal shook his head, made shapes with his hands that looked like the protuberances and spokes jutting out of the ship.
“Oh, those things. Yeah, the ships you took Earth with weren’t anything like that one.”
“No,” and Zainal grinned down at Jay. “Too big, no good.”
“Well, there’s that aspect of big, I suppose,” Jay replied amiably.
They watched until it was out of sight but not out of earshot. On the noon air, they could hear it changing gears…or whatever it did, causing the sound to alter.
“Hovering?” Mitford said, disbelieving what his ears reported. Then he shook his head. “I sure wouldn’t want to have to lift that dead mass from the ground.” He sighed. “How can they?” He looked queryingly at Zainal, who only shrugged again and shook his head. Kris saw anxiety for the first time in Zainal’s expression.
Kris swallowed. “If we hadn’t got those folks out yesterday…”
Mitford nodded. “You did great, Bjornsen.”
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