Freedom's Choice

by Anne McCaffrey

  Then Zainal was back inside the scout and his camera turned off. She breathed a sigh of relief, oddly echoed around the crowded bridge. Which, she realized, was just a bit too crowded for her and she rose from her seat, glancing appealingly at Pete.

  “Thanks, admiral,” she said, nodding to the others she knew among those on the bridge.

  A way parted for her as Easley conducted her off the bridge and then off the KDL. Her knees were near to buckling as she stepped down the ladder, hanging on with her left hand. And her arm ached despite her efforts to make it stop.

  “There’re sandwiches and tea,” Pete said, showing where a trestle table was burdened with lunch items. “And I know where they keep the hangar’s hooch,” he added.

  “This isn’t like me,” she said, peevish again.

  “No, it isn’t,” Pete said equably. “But you’re allowed. Sit. I’ll be right back.”

  He doctored a cup of tea and brought more sandwiches than she thought was fair, but she polished off two and had two cups of hooched-up tea. The ache in her bones subsided.

  “D’you want to go back in and see the next show?” Easley asked.

  He was really being very nice, Kris thought, but she shook her head.

  “Then I’ll take you back to the cabin,” and he cupped her left elbow though he’d parked the runabout very close to where they’d been sitting.

  He was really quite a nice guy, she thought. She wondered who’d snap him up as the father of a child, or children. He was a good head taller than she was, and rather more athletic than you’d think with that pose of indolence he usually affected. Not bad-looking, either, though nothing as toyboy–handsome as Dick Aarens was. Or Yuri with his Slavic cheekbones and snapping black eyes. Neither of them was a patch on Zainal though.

  The comunit buzzed and Pete answered it. “Oh, you have? That’s great…. I’m taking Kris home. She needs to rest. Okay?…Fine. See you…. No, they don’t know what the Bubble’s made of…except it’s the biggest damned balloon ever made. Over.”

  “Yeah,” and she giggled, “it is the biggest damned balloon ever made and we don’t know who blew it up.”

  Pete grinned at her and she knew she was acting silly, but it was better than being peevish.

  “I love that door,” she said as the runabout stopped in front of it. “It’s the best front door I’ve ever seen. Zainal will be so pleased. Say, how much hooch did you pour in my tea?”

  “Only enough to stop the ache in your arm. It has stopped, hasn’t it?”

  She looked down at the clumsy white extrusion. “You know, it has.”

  Pete swung the door inward and she had taken the first step before she realized that the inside was different.

  “My God, what’s been happening with my back turned?” she demanded, swaying a bit as she turned toward Pete.

  He took her good arm and led her inside. “Well, we were going to wait with the shivaree until Zainal could be here, too, but with you hors de combat, as it were, Sandy, Lenny, Ninety, Chuck, Sarah, Whitby, and Leila thought maybe now would be the right time to bring the stuff in.”

  “Stuff?” She blinked, trying to focus on first the table, with six glasses, almost symmetrical in manufacture, and a pottery set—which looked like Sandy’s best designs—two pots, one large, one small, and a cast-iron skillet. There were benches around the table and at one end a chair big enough to fit Zainal. She put her hand to her mouth in surprise. But when her startled gaze flicked past the opening to the smaller room and saw the wooden bedstead with carved posts and the huge puffy fluff mattress that covered it, she burst into tears.

  “Now, now, Kris,” Pete said in consternation, and, pulling her against him, began to stroke her soothingly, saying a lot of things that she didn’t really hear because the generosity of her friends and the team was so overwhelming.

  Then he was holding one of the glasses to her lips and urging her to drink. She did because she hated to be such a baby when everyone was being so nice to her. And then her knees seemed to give way and Pete picked her up—as easily as Zainal could—and deposited her on the bed, arranging the pillows behind her and urging her to finish the drink.

  “The bed—it’s so marvelous…and they all know I’ve wanted a really, really, truly thick mattress…” And she clung more firmly to Pete, as the only steady thing in a rapidly whirling world.

  She felt arms around her and, out of habit, forgetting that Zainal was off in space, she put her face up to be kissed. And it was. And so were her cheeks, and her neck, just where she liked it, and she was kissing the masculine face, slightly stubbled, which surprised her because Zainal didn’t grow a beard but she needed comfort right now and the kisses were very nice indeed and she couldn’t resist returning them…nor protest, even with her right arm feeling so heavy and not quite hers, when the coverall was slipped off and when she felt the warm skin next to hers. This was all somehow inevitable and, in the end, quite enjoyable.

  * * *

  She woke up with a terrible hangover and discovered, the hard way by accidentally banging her right arm as she tried to sit up, that it was still in a splint, though the throbbing was muted. The struggle just to sit only made her head worse.

  She remembered being in the KDL’s bridge, and coming back and seeing all the lovely gifts and crying, and sitting down on the bed, and Pete Easley.

  She sat bolt upright, collapsing almost immediately with the headache and trying to remember more. And realized that indeed she did remember more. It hadn’t been Zainal she’d made love with last night. It had been Pete Easley! And she’d enjoyed it far more than she should have. In fact, she could almost—not quite but almost—regret that her scruples required her to honor the bond that had grown between herself and Zainal as if it were a legal one. And that meant no jumping in the sack with anyone. Well, there were extenuating circumstances involved last night that would never recur. Furthermore, she’d keep far away from any of that “medicinal,” inhibition-destroying alcohol. As much because of the headache she had as to what it did to her self-control.

  Well, she thought philosophically, and chuckled. At least I remember enjoying it. Then she sighed. She hoped their next meeting wouldn’t be awkward. Or that she’d have to explain to Pete that last night was it! She wasn’t about to two-time Zainal. Even with someone as good in bed as Pete Easley. Some girl was going to be very lucky! She made another injudicious movement and thought longingly of a cool compress on her forehead and maybe the back of her neck.

  Maybe a hair of the dog? She pushed back the blankets and noticed that Pete had neatly laid her coverall on the stool in easy reach, her boots beside it.

  Yes, the bottle of medicinal spirits was on the table, and the glass he poured for her, with a good inch in it. Had he had some before he left? Whenever he had left, and she did briefly worry that his departure might have been noticed. Well, if it had, it had. She lifted the glass and knocked it back, shuddering at the taste. It was remarkable she’d been able to drink any of it.

  She made a slow way to the hearth and, holding her head very still, lowered herself, spine-straight, to light the fire laid there. Another considerate touch by Mr. Easley. And the kettle was full of water.

  One of these days, they would have water piped into houses, but that was in the future.

  She went back to the table, to inspect the gifts she remembered vaguely having seen earlier, now sunlit from the small side window above the bed. Its slightly wavy glass sent a prism of rainbow light onto the table. Then she realized how the sun was shining in, from the east. For they faced the cabin south! Good Lord! She’d slept the rest of yesterday and an entire Botany night? No wonder her arm didn’t ache as much.

  The headache had begun to ease off by the time the kettle had boiled. She took herbs from the little pot on the mantel and made a cup which she took to Zainal’s chair to drink. It was a comfortable chair, and she eased into its contours. It’d need a cushion or two…. No, she couldn’t see Zainal sitting o
n a cushion, but the wood, when she felt it with her left hand, had been rubbed smooth, smelling only vaguely of the vegetable oil that had been used to give it luster. She wondered who had made it.

  Then she absorbed the construction of the table—a three-inch slab of the slate which was quarried nearby, set on sturdy, slightly tapering rounds of lodge-pole trees, with notches spiked through the slate at the corners, keeping the top firmly in place.

  There was a tentative knock on the door.

  “Coming,” she said, and saw that the latchstring was inside. She must have come to long enough to do that when Pete left. She opened the door to Mavis Belton from the hospital, a clean coverall in one hand.

  “Oh, do come in,” Kris said. “Kettle’s just boiled. I was having a cup to get over my hangover.”

  “How’s the arm?” asked Mavis, with a grin.

  “Not as bad as yesterday, that’s for sure. Come in, come in.”

  Mavis did, but only after a careful look into the main room of the cabin. Then she saw the furnishings and exclaimed with surprise, running her finger over the surface of the slate slab and admiring the sturdy lodge-pole legs that held such a weight up.

  “Not something you could tip over easily,” she remarked, stroking the chest and then Zainal’s chair. “Big enough even for him, I’d say.”

  “He’ll be delighted with it. He looks so uncomfortable on stools, with his legs sticking up like Arnie Schwarzenegger on a kindergarten chair. Here’s your tea, and I’ll just steal Zainal’s chair. I can rest the splint on the arm.”

  “I just ended my shift but I thought you’d like to hear that Baby’s doing fine in her orbitals.”

  “I saw them reach the Bubble and Zainal’s space walk,” Kris said. “That was before Pete Easley plied me with so much liquor I must have passed out.”

  “I think we’re going to have to alter the recipe. That particular distillation is double potency. I told Leon and Mayock they’d better cut it more.”

  “They should,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck. “My hangover’s hung over for sure.”

  “Sit out in the sun. It’s a lovely day.” Mavis rose. “May I look around? Inside and out?”

  “Sure, but watch that pile of shakes on the way to the latrine, will you?”

  * * *

  By dinnertime, when Mitford came by in the runabout to take her down to the mess hall, she had completely recovered. But she took him to task and demanded to know who had done the furniture she’d found in the cabin on her return from the hangar.

  “Whose idea was that table? Not even Zainal could tip it over, and how’d you get it down here?” she asked.

  “We were going to do it while you and Zainal were gone, surprise you on your return.” Chuck Mitford said with a sly grin at her. “But with you on the sick list, seemed a good idea to put up the bed…and then what was a bed without a table and the chairs?”

  “Well, it was very, very much appreciated. Especially that thick mattress on that wide bed! Drunk as I was, I appreciated that!” Then she caught Mitford’s odd expression. “Oh, yes, Pete Easley got me high as a kite just in case you hear rumors that I was drunk. I was. I slept through an entire Botany night without so much as moving. Mavis came by this morning and said they were going to cut the last batch. I said they’d better…it was damned near lethal. Who made the bed?”

  “Oh, the Doyles and me. I cut the timber and Lenny did the posts and showed me how to make the joints and stuff. He and Ninety did the table and the chair. Said it was the least they could do for the guy that kept them from becoming frozen steaks in a Farmers’ freezer. Joe and Sarah did the mattress and pillows, Sandy Areson the pottery and glassware of course, Whitby the benches. Coo traded for the pots and the skillet. No big deal.”

  “No big deal?” she exclaimed, and a faint reminder of her hangover made her head ring with the loudness of her voice. “You furnish our cabin and it’s no big deal. It’s a real big deal to me,” and she leaned over and kissed the sergeant on the cheek before she knew she was doing it. “There. And don’t blush like that, Chuck Mitford. I do appreciate what you all did and, besides, no one saw me kiss you.”

  She giggled when the sergeant lifted one hand halfway to his cheek and then dropped it quickly back to his lap. He was still red-faced.

  “You finished your cabin first. You’ll have a chance to help others furnish theirs when they’ve built,” he said in a gruff voice. “By the way, stood a tour on the KDL and the mission’s going a-okay. Not a wrinkle on the balloon as far as they’ve gone. Seamless. All the tech heads are scratching their arses over what was used.”

  “What’s the general feeling? Or is it too far away to bother the claustrophics?” she asked, trying not to resent her absence…and Zainal’s.

  “I think people are glad. The Deskis evidently had a wild night of dancing, singing…if you can call that warble singing…and Coo says there are giants protecting us.”

  “Did he see the Eosi?”

  “No,” and Mitford shook his head. “And, frankly, I’m just as glad I didn’t. Worry’s still having nightmares and I think that’s why Leon made the latest hooch so strong. Hoooo-eee!” He let out a long whistle. “You can blame them for getting you drunk, not Pete Easley. Which reminds me. Officially you’re on sick leave, Bjornsen, so don’t get any ideas about doing anything with that busted wing until Leon gives you the okay. Got me?”

  “Yes sir, sergeant, sir,” she said, saluting repeatedly with her left hand.

  The makers and donors of the furniture were saving spaces for them at a table in the mess hall. Kris lavished praise and gratitude on all for making a cabin into a real home, promising to do as well by them, when their cabins were up, as they had by her. Then the conversation devolved to Baby’s mission and Mitford, sipping what he assured Kris was a well-watered jolt of hooch, brought them up to speed.

  * * *

  The monitor also tracked the small vessel in its exploration, especially the examination at the barrier, and followed its progress until it landed safely again on the western continent.

  CHAPTER 10

  Baby returned safely and with sufficient masses of information to keep all the brass-heads, engineers, miners, and Aggies busy. The mission crew took a longer time to get themselves back down to the surface, they were so high on the experience. Zainal’s course had used a minimum of fuel and won the plaudits of the aviators and astronauts. Everyone on board had had instruction from him on how to fly Baby and a little chance at maneuvering.

  “We may not have flight simulators, but what’re they against the real thing?” Balenquah demanded. “Too damned bad we can’t go anywhere in the KDL. Zainal says it’s much easier to pilot—had to be since Drassis flew that series. That whole caper of capturing the KDL was a waste of time.”

  “No,” Bert Put said, evidently rather fed up with Balenquah’s opinions, “it got us extra fuel, a new bridge console, and a lot of tools we’d have a hard time duplicating.”

  “Oh, yeah, forgot about them,” Balenquah replied.

  “Well, if we have to shift population, it’ll be handy enough.”

  “There’ll be flying in the KDL,” Marrucci said, “maybe only mine and grain runs, but we’re not totally grounded, you know.”

  “We are for any real space work,” the man went on, talking himself into a morose state.

  Zainal rose then and muttered something about having to see the admiral and took Kris from the table. Glancing back just as she and Zainal left the mess hall, she saw that others were departing from the table, leaving Balenquah on his own.

  * * *

  Zainal had been struck dumb with amazement when he saw the cabin. The door—which he admired even before he opened it, with Kris barely able to contain her excitement at what lay beyond it—had required his attention: admiring the detail, the latchstring, which gave him great amusement, pulling it in and out.

  Then he entered the room and saw the table and the chair, the pottery an
d glasses, which Kris had put on the mantel, having no other place to store things—yet. Lenny had promised to teach her how to do mortise-and-tenon joins in wood and make herself proper chests and drawers. But the table and the chair shocked him, with one knee raised for the next step, and he stared and stared, and then inarticulately tried to ask her who, how, where these things had come from.

  As she replied, interspersing the explanation with giggles for the surprise yet in store for him, he examined everything, even trying to lift the slate-topped table. He sat in the chair, got up, turned it upside down to see how the legs had been fitted in, and the stringers, and then righted it to sit in it again, stroking the armrests with his big hands.

  Maybe Catteni didn’t have tear ducts or never cried but Zainal’s eyes were certainly full of fluid and though he tried to speak, he kept shaking his head, speechless.

  “I’ve saved the best for last,” she said, and taking a hand that was attached to a body reluctant to leave the chair that had been made to fit him, she led him to where he couldn’t miss the bedstead.

  He had an immediate response to that: the very devil of a look in his full eyes, as he swooped her up into his arms and carried her, for all the world the way John Wayne had treated Maureen O’Hara in The Quiet Man, and demonstrated how much better he could perform on a resilient surface.

  * * *

  Mitford took her off the sick list when he wanted their team to find a pass through the western hills to the far shore: he let her go along. He knew very well that she’d be better employed marking klicks, which she could do with her left hand, than left at Retreat, fretting that she was useless.

  While that was being organized she spent some time making bricks, since she could fill the molds left-handed. She owed Sarah and Joe for their hand in the Great Furniture Surprise. When some loggers were injured—two badly—she sat in the ward with them, checking pulses and temperatures. There were no blood pressure devices and no thermometers, so it was all hands-on. She also fed Boris Slavinkovin, who had broken both arms and most of his ribs when the rolling log took a shortcut over his body. Being fed by a one-handed aide didn’t embarrass him half as much, he told her, because it didn’t tie up a whole human who could do jobs other than feeding him. Then he asked her if she could teach him better English since he was now stuck in bed and had to do something.