Day followed day and now it had become commonplace for a single truck or a small group of them to veer suddenly off at a tangent from the main train. A wave of a hand and these hardy seekers would fade into the vastness of the red prairie.
They’ve come home—each one of them knows that they’ve come home at last, Robert Balleau would say to himself upon these occasions, and as the crimson hills loomed in front of the train only to vanish rearward, he studied the landscape with a new intensity.
One day he called to a scout who was riding train-side: a young Terran named Nate Goodrow. “Where are we?”
Goodrow pulled in close, his eyes on the boy Cory, who rode on the seat beside his uncle; a boy who, upon the crossing of the river, seemed to have changed from an eleven year-old child to an eleven-year-old man. Cory had lost his childhood in a brief span of hours and no longer ran and played, nor did he allow his face to be the mirror of his emotions. He had acquired a dignity that his years denied and there was about him a gravity of bearing.
“Western edge of the Seven Canals.” Nate Goodrow said. “Fine country. Rich land around here. How are you, Cory?”
The boy turned his head. “I’m fine. Mr. Goodrow.”
“As one scout to another—why don’t you call me Nate?”
Cory smiled briefly, and his reaction appeared to be one of mild amusement. “Thank you—Nate.”
“Figuring on pulling off hereabouts, Mr. Balleau?”
“I like the look of it.”
“I’ll tell you something. There’s a town up the line a piece. About ten miles. Peaceful natives. I’ve got a hunch there’ll be quite a chunk of this train cut off there. I’ve heard some talk.”
“Thank you—thank you very much.”
With that John Balleau leaned on his wheel and swung out of line. A shout went up along the train. Hands were waved as John Balleau struck a forty five-degree angle and pulled away.
“I’ll be hunting you up one of these days,” Goodrow called.
The farewells were loud and cheerful and the hands and hats were waved with gusto. John Balleau turned and smiled and waved back.
But the boy Cory made no motions of acknowledgement. He stared straight ahead across the prairie. So far as his actions were concerned, the truck train did not exist.
John Balleau’s instincts were unerring. They led him across the country straight to a spot where an eight-foot creek meandered into a swale and became a pond. There was lush grass here and cool yellow trees. The land sloped southward—gently rolling prairie—land that would respond to the love and care of a man like John Balleau.
He hit the brake and stopped beside the pond, got off the truck and picked up a handful of dirt. He let it dribble through his fingers. He said:
“This is it, Cory boy. We’re here.”
Cory Balleau got down from the truck and took off his shoes. He stripped down and ran straight into the pond until it caught him around his lean hips. Then he pitched forward and sank to the soft bottom. The water felt good against his hot skin.
THE ANCIENT settlement of Ngania expanded a hundredfold over night. As the truck train wound in off the prairie, the thin sprinkling of natives blinked in wonder. A place with no ambitions and little energy, it found itself suddenly engulfed in the drive and action of a super-charged Terran horde.
Frank Bates was an excellent example of this new blood. He scanned the situation swiftly and what he saw was good. This country was rich and ripe and ready for the plow. In the not too distant future a freighter station would be established at Ngania and a flood of grain would pour into the space liners. The crying need would be for money, and Frank Bates had money. Money would be needed to build the country and the town. Lumber, farm implements, crop loans. The land was for the taking but that was only the beginning. The great common denominator was money.
The first important building to rise in Ngania was the imposing home of Frank Bates. The next building housed his Ngania Bank. The lumber was carted down from the polar forests in trucks and then there were more people who wanted homes and Frank Bates made arrangements with Terran banking connections and the money was forthcoming.
But there was a gross error in this picture and Frank Bates was comfortably aware of that error. It lay in the timing of the hopeful project.
The timing was wrong. Wheat and corn did not—like cattle—have legs. It could not be driven over the trails to the freighter station. The station must, of necessity, be at the back door of the grain fields in order to move the grain to market.
There was optimistic talk of course. The settlers were riding on a wave of enthusiasm and rumors flew thick and fast; rumors, but very few facts.
Frank Bates dreamed and planned, but he kept his dreams and plans to himself. He walked the streets of Ngania and had a smile and a handshake for all comers. And anyone who wished to discuss a loan against his land was cordially invited into the office.
At the end of two years, Frank Bates had quietly, and in the natural course of business, acquired four sections of land southwest of Ngania. In the drawer of his desk he had a map. When he was quite alone, with no chance of interruption, he would spread this map on his desk and study it with deep intent. The map was of a remarkably wide area of the surrounding country and, as time went on, Frank Bates blacked out more and more squares on the map. Black was his color of conquest. The blacked-out squares belonged to him and as he sat in his office, pencil in hand, he dreamed cocky little dreams of empire.
ONE DAY his eyes roved northeast on the map and he pursed his lips thoughtfully. He had been thinking of a place away from town—a spot upon which to build a country estate which would reflect his fast growing importance m the community. An ideal location for this would be on the land of John Balleau, a Terran who had come in with the first movement. On this land a meandering creek widened into a pond of pleasant proportions. There were trees there—a grove of yellow thorngas. And trees were not too plentiful in this prairie.
However, this John Balleau had-not borrowed any money from the Ngania Bank. He was a wary customer, this Terran. With the tools he brought, he had pushed his cultivation out gradually from the small house he’d built with his own wood. He refused to get over-extended, shunned obligation, and ignored rumors of the coming station. He preferred to wait until he saw the ships on the horizon.
The months and the seasons passed and the years became four. The freighters did not come, and Frank Bates continued blacking out sections of his map. Settlers continued to pack up their trucks and move onward off land no longer theirs.
Strangely enough, they did not blame Frank Bates. The man had a way of ingratiating himself. He had a knack of appearing to be an effect rather than a cause. He shunted the curses off on the Terran capitalists and even sped travelers on their way with a few cash credits to get them comfortably on the move.
He was still the genial greeter on the streets of Ngania, but fewer and fewer settlers were received in his private office.
And he was content with his land, his dreams and his plans. If he was growing a trifle harder, a little more rapacious, somewhat more openly arrogant, no one noticed it.
His wife, Myra, a plump, pleasant woman with no great ambitions, served as an excellent front. She was a sincere and gracious hostess, a figure in the social life of the town. Also, she was not a difficult woman for her husband to handle.
His daughter was a golden-haired beauty of whom he was very proud. With the passing of four more years, she had turned eighteen and, to her father’s satisfaction, had remained emotionally unentangled. With her, Frank Bates had been more direct and open in his relations. She was important to him. She was not going to be wasted upon any cow-eyed local youth. She would eventually meet and marry New York class—Terran breeding—limitless money.
In his own way he gave her to understand this and he was satisfied with the docility with which she accepted her destiny. He would have liked her to be a bit more of a snob. He regretted that she had th
e common touch so apparent in her mother, but he was aware of the fire lying close under her calm exterior and attributed that to his own blood running through her veins.
There were times when he thought he sensed a cunning in her; an essence of the inner fire that disquieted him. At times, he had a feeling that, behind her clear blue eyes, she was laughing at him. But this, he knew of course, was only his imagination.
Kay Bates was the greatest satisfaction of his life.
KAY BATES had a petite three-homed goff and she spent a great deal of time in the saddle. She had expensive Terran riding clothes—jodhpurs clinging to her slim legs to bulge out at the thigh; black boots and vivid shirtwaists and trim jackets. The clothes gave her complete freedom and she wore them as she wore her lush body—with unassuming grace.
Upon this day—as upon other days—she rode directly north from Ngania until she came to Bland Creek. Then, well out of sight of the town, she veered eastward, following the bends of the creek, skirting the thronga patches, until she was upon the land of John Balleau.
As she traveled, a definite transformation came over her. Her eyes brightened and the breathing movement of her bosom became deeper and more hurried. She leaned forward on the goff and was impatient with any inclination of the animal to dally by the way. Her cheeks were brightly flushed and, at times, her smooth brown hands almost trembled.
At one turn in the creek, sheltered by a thick growth of thronga, the goff snorted, ears turned sharply forward. The animal tossed its alert head and Kay saw the rump and switching tail of another goff cropping red grass in the swale beyond. Then the sounds of splashing water and Kay was off the sorrel and creeping swiftly through the willows. She ran toward the creek and the feeling within her was warm and delicious. She pushed head and shoulders out of concealment into a grassed-over glade.
Here the creek—at one of its many bends—went to twice its normal width and swirled in a pocket of respectable depth. The splashing sounds had been coming from there.
Kay stepped into full view and looked down at the slim brown body that was rolling and twisting and disporting in the water. A turning motion, and the entire left side of this body was visible for a moment above the water line. Then a quick turn to its back to do a complete forward flip, slide into the depths and leave only the heels in sight. Now the head came up—thick brown curls flinging water like a seal—a brown face and blue eyes opening.
Kay’s laugh was clear and happy.
“Cory!”
Cory Balleau was nineteen now and he had received the physical heritage of his father. The slim perfection of body, from the shoulders down, was that of Robert Balleau. The shoulders themselves were broader and stronger, but despite hard work, they would never bulge with muscle. The classic line was almost intact.
The face, now flushed deep red, was also of the sensitive, classic mold.
“How long have you been there?” he gasped.
Her lie was tossed back gaily. “A long time. I was in the willows, peeking. I’m a shameless hussy.”
“That’s the truth! You turn around and get yourself away from here.”
She made motions against the buttons of her blouse. “I’m coming in.”
“You’re not! I’ll—I’ll drown you. Get back in the throngas!”
“I’m tired of peeking. I want to swim.”
She teased him with every fibre of her mind and body—with her eyes and her lips and the tilt of her breast and the slant of her hips and legs. Something inside her was wildly exultant at his embarrassment.
“Love me?”
“No! You dance-hall trollop!”
IT IS SAID that there is always one man before whom each woman is shameless. This may or may not be true, but Kay Bates, who was the despair of every swain in Ngania, whose lips, so far as they were concerned, were used only for laughing, listened to this hurled insult and grinned, gamin-like.
“Shall I dance for you?”
“You can get away from here for me!”
“Come on out.”
“I won’t come out.”
She dropped cross-legged to the ground. “I can wait. You stay there and pretty soon the sun will go away. Then you’ll get blue and your teeth will chatter. Hadn’t you better come out now while it’s warm?”
“All right. If that’s how you want it.” He started grimly toward the bank. But it was only a bluff and he was never to find out whether it would have scared her away. He had a feeling that it wouldn’t and he stopped belly deep in the water.
“Please!”
Her gayety dropped from her and there was something in her eyes; something of a wordless question, as though her eyes were saying: Can’t you understand this?
She said, “Cory—! and there was a pleading in her voice. Then, “All right. Hurry and get dressed.”
She turned and stepped over his clothing, snatched up his shirt and disappeared through the throngas.
Soon he followed, to find her stretched full length in the grass of the swale where the goffs were cropping through their bits. She had folded his shirt into a pillow that was almost covered by her golden hair.
“Give it here,” Cory demanded.
She looked at his upper body, tanned to a deep flawless brown, up into his eyes. She was strangely quiet.
He dropped, cross-legged beside her. A twist and her head was in the pocket formed by his knees, her face turned upward to his.
His hand moved over and his fingers clenched and kneaded in the strands of her hair. “Why are you—?”
“Why am I what?”
“Well—like you are?”
A shadow of the gamin grin but a wistfulness underneath; “Don’t you like me this way?”
“I—don’t know.”
“Can’t you find out?”
“This is no good. Sneaking around like this.”
“I’m not sneaking. I just ride out. I don’t try to stop anyone from following me.”
She knew that this was not true; that she was very careful to avoid pursuit. And she knew why. This was, of course, against her father’s will, and he would terminate it swiftly if he knew. It is doubtful that she would have deceived him concerning any other phase of her life. Aside from this passionate attachment, she was an open book to him or anyone else because it was not her nature to be otherwise. However, she was a girl who had found the one male who could stir the woman-fires within her. Beside Cory Balleau, all the youths she had ever met seemed shallow, ungainly lumps of clay. She was possessed of a passion that could be set off only by something this youth possessed.
THE FEELING he engendered within her had a fierce quality about it that—so far as she was concerned—went deeper than any code of honesty. The rules whereby she had been taught to live had nothing to do with her love for Cory Balleau.
Thus her deceit in defending this love was complete and crafty. And, in keeping it under cover, she did not reveal any weakness or any craven tinge of spirit, but rather a sure knowledge that her father was stronger than she was. In any battle over this passion of hers, her father would win. This she knew.
“Isn’t it pretty odd that no one ever has followed you?”
She reached up and caught his hands and drew them down to her breast. Her eyes were closed.
“Let’s not talk.”
“We’ve got to talk.”
“Why?”
“Because—because we’ve got to come to an understanding. You’ve got to stay away from here.”
“I’m not going to stay away.”
She sighed with contentment and snuggled her head deeper into his lap. His words did not upset her. She knew her weaknesses and she knew her strength. She was well aware of the fact that she had not stirred this youth as he stirred her. But also, she knew that, eventually, she would.
And, in the meantime, he would not drive her away. It was only in connection with this sure knowledge that she ever gave any thought to her body. It was holding him, whether he knew it or not, and she was f
iercely thankful that she had a beautiful body, slim legs and smooth hips and a strong sex lure. In these moments she sometimes thought: Suppose I were-ugly and lumpy and had nothing to attract him—nothing to hold him until I can make him feel the love I feel. I think I’d die.
If the time ever comes when I can’t see him and feel him and look forward to someday having him completely—I know I’ll die—
I know that—
CORY BALLEAU’S feelings, relative to Kay Bates, were vague, blurred of outline and somewhat troublesome to the youth. He felt an attraction to the lips and the body that were wantonly held out to him, but there was a barrier within him that stood between; a barrier he could not surmount.
Nor did he entirely understand what this block was—a dozen generations of genteel breeding coupled with a nature that was a trifle cold—that did not inflame easily. The sex-pull of Kay Bates was apparent to Cory Balleau: it was an attraction but not an all-powerful magnet. There was need for more in a woman, so far as Cory was concerned. A deeper response had to be engendered within himself and that response was not there.
In truth, the boy was afraid of life. He seldom left the homestead acres his uncle had acquired northeast of Ngania. He worked the land and swam in the creek and took the seasons as they came and was content if not happy.
He was sure that he wanted no more than this. In the town itself, when he went there with his uncle, he was distinctly ill at ease. Back in his sensitive mind were old images—old and hazed over by time, but none-the-less potent in his subconscious mind. He felt that the world was a grim conscienceless hodgepodge of brutal beings without feeling for each other. Greed and cruelty lay within the hearts of everyone. Any indication to the contrary was mere insincerity that lay as a thin coating over their true natures. He had seen stark evidence of this cruelty, and, except in his now-dead mother, in his uncle, and in Kay Bates, he never seen any sign of the goodness of man.
As a matter of fact, he sensed a streak of cruelty in Kay herself, and he felt that, possibly, her efforts to get what she wanted—if crossed—would border on cruelty.
The 47th Golden Age of Science Fiction Page 27