France was a major player in the New World in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. Driven by the lucrative fur trade, her territories in North America came to include most of what is now southern Canada and most of what is now central United States. But this was mainly on paper; the actual French population was exceedingly thin, and strongly contested by the American Indians who had a prior claim on the land. In the end, Britain and Spain were to prevail in North America, at the expense of France.
But this was not evident in 1661, when King Louis XIV assumed actual control of France, after a number of years of regency by his mother and dominance by Cardinal Mazarin, successor to the infamous Cardinal Richelieu. The young king studied governance and learned his lessons well, and was to become one of France's longest-reigning and greatest monarchs. The court of Louis XIV was the most magnificent in Europe. The Thirty Years War had exhausted much of continental Europe, and England was still struggling to regain its strength after the collapse of Cromwell's Puritan state. But while Louis XIV was the closest thing to an absolute monarch in Europe, his authority was still constrained by the wealth and power of the nobility. His common sense and diligence enabled him to gauge the temper of potential adversaries, and to achieve his ends without arousing their overt opposition.
In 1661 the colonial governor in Canada, Baron d'Avauger, sent a messenger to the court at Versailles to plead for aid, because the colony was being severely pinched by naval weakness and the Iroquois Indians. The emissary he sent was Pierre Boucher, the governor of Trois-Rivierès in Quebec. Boucher met with Louis XIV and impressed upon him the benefits that a thorough exploitation of the New World's resources might bring. Louis and his excellent new finance minister Jean-Baptiste Colbert favored this, but a number of powerful nobles did not. Therefore the extent of the help the king might provide was in doubt. Unless Louis found a way to nullify some opposition, the French presence in Canada could be in trouble.
LYNNE STOOD AT THE PROW of the great ship, gazing ahead. There it was: New France! The great land some called Quebec, and some called Canada. It was covered with green forest. Some of that forest would be theirs. They would make a farm more wonderful than ever, and have the very best and richest furs, here in the great New World.
Then they were at Quebec. The Fort St. Louis de Quebec sat on a promontory dominating the St. Lawrence River. There was the colonial governor's residence and administrative offices, and the Chateau St. Louis, the cathedral, the Jesuit college, the Ursulines convent, and the Hotel Dieu, which was the hospital run by nuns. There were several wealthy private houses on the promontory, but most of the homes and warehouses for the merchants were at the foot of the cliffs, along the edge of the St. Lawrence and St. Charles rivers. A few were built of stone, with steep pitched roofs like those of northern France, but most were of wood or wood and plaster. There were, in all, about 800 people living there.
But they would not stay there. The best land was farther inland. They would carve it out of the virgin territory, and commute to Quebec for trading, or when the Iroquois made it too dangerous. But maybe that problem had been exaggerated. Because some of the horrors that had been described were simply too horrible to be believed. So she didn't believe them. Quite. Nevertheless—
Lynne woke. She had been dreaming again. She wanted so much to see the land that Jessamine and Ittai had described. The family would be going there on the ship's next trip. She just knew that everything there would be so much better than it was here in France. After all, Jessamine and Ittai had laid claim to a suitable farmstead in Montreal. The soil was rich, and the fur trade was richer. All the region needed was more people. But it was hard to get more people, because the Iroquois had gotten guns and ammunition from the dastardly Dutch traders at Fort Orange, and were dedicated to driving the French out of the St. Lawrence River Valley. But with the help King Louis would provide, that should not be too bad a threat. She hoped.
"Come on," Jessamine said briskly. "We must be ladies today."
Lynne suppressed a smirk. At age fifteen—almost sixteen—she liked dressing up in skirts, but her big sister didn't. Jessamine would much rather be garbed as a sailor on her husband's ship, passing for a male sea hand. But today Ittai had to play the part of the rich merchant seaman he was, and Jessamine had to be a lovely lady. And so did Lynne. The others were closing down the farm and packing the ship, but Lynne was coming to the court because a pretty face just might incline the king toward their cause. Their mission was to support Pierre Boucher's plea for aid for New France. So that it would be safe for them to move there.
They helped each other dress. Both of them had free-flowing gowns with laced bodices. When the laces were pulled tight, the bodices squeezed the breasts, making them swell out the top. Jessamine had put on some weight in recent months, and was more buxom than Lynne had thought. Lynne swelled similarly, though the bodice was uncomfortable and restricted her breathing.
They did each other's hair, adding perfume and ribbons, making it curl just so. Jeweled combs made it sparkle. But the worst of it was the high-heeled shoes. They had to walk carefully, lest they stumble. "I feel like a clown," Jessamine muttered. "I wish Snow could have done this instead. She has the bosom for it."
"She would swell right out of this bodice!" Lynne said, giggling as she glanced down into her forced cleavage.
"Precisely. The king would surely like that."
When they were fully prepared, Lynne drew on her gloves. The left one was specially made to conceal her embarrassment.
Ittai arrived. "Are we ready for the court?" he inquired from outside the room.
"Come on in," Jessamine said. "We're bedecked."
He entered the room. He was wearing a long and ornamented vest, culottes gathered at the knees with buckles, lace stockings, and boots. Overall he wore a long open coat, whose wide sleeves were trimmed with lace, and a wide soft hat tilted up on three sides and sporting a plume of feathers. He had shaved his face, except for a great mustache. "You look lovely!"
Jessamine grimaced, but Lynne spoke up. "You're really handsome!"
He doffed his hat to her and made a little bow. "Clothes make the man, fortunately." He gave her a second glance. "You have grown, Lynne."
"No I haven't. It's this squeezing bodice. Everything I have is outside it." She tapped one of her bulges just above the lacing.
"It will do." He turned to Jessamine. "Bear up, my love; soon we shall be free of this nuisance."
"I'd rather fight a duel," Jessamine snapped.
He smiled. "Dueling has been forbidden, fortunately for any knave who might cross you."
"I've got my knife anyway."
"But you couldn't draw it without lifting your skirt, and showing the knave more delight than he deserves."
"Stop making me miserable." But Jessamine finally did return his smile. Jessamine did have good legs, because she was so active, and she liked having her husband appreciate them. In fact Lynne suspected that Jessamine really didn't mind being required to dress up and prove she was a woman. As long as she got chances betweentimes to adventure in the fashion of a man.
They went out to the coach. Ittai gallantly assisted them both in boarding, before joining them inside. "Remember: ladylike throughout," he said gravely. "No fighting." He glanced at Jessamine. "And no cartwheels." He glanced at Lynne.
They both had to laugh. The thought of turning a cartwheel in this outfit was hilarious. "That knave's eyes would pop out," Lynne said.
"So would our breasts," Jessamine added.
"And you would never get them crammed back in," Ittai agreed. "Pregnancy becomes you, my love."
"What?" Lynne asked, astonished.
"All the more reason not to get bound up like this again," Jessamine said. Then, to Lynne: "Yes. I have missed two periods. I think I am with child. At last."
"Great! Now you'll really have to be a lady."
"A woman."
"A lady today, a woman always," Ittai said.
The palace at Versailles was southwest of Paris. It was the biggest, fanciest building Lynne had ever seen. She was dazzled by its great brick walls and multiple stories. She knew it had started as a hunting lodge, some thirty-five years before, built by the king's father, but it had been almost continually expanded. Indeed, there were signs of construction now, as outlying buildings were being added.
They introduced themselves to the gatekeepers, who checked their roster and verified that these visitors were expected. A page guided them to the breakfast chamber of the king. Pierre Boucher was already there, in his best clothing, along with a number of courtiers Lynne didn't recognize. There they waited until Louis completed his breakfast and acknowledged their presence. The king was a handsome man in his early twenties, quite well dressed and surprisingly free of affectation. He wore a magnificent head of golden curls, his hair surrounding his face and covering his shoulders. Lynne might have mistaken him for a woman, as he wore neither beard nor mustache, had he not been so obviously the king.
"Ah yes, Monsieur Boucher," Louis said. "From New France. I am so pleased to meet you. And your fine merchant captain, Ittai, of whom I have heard good things. And—" He glanced meaningfully at the women.
"My wife, Jessamine," Ittai said quickly, and Jessamine made a curtsy. They had practiced, to be sure to do it correctly. "And my wife's sister, Lynne," he continued after a moment. Now Lynne curtsied, relieved to accomplish it without mishap.
"Charming, charming," Louis said. "Come with me to the council chamber, and we shall see what all this is about."
He meant only the men, of course, as women had no place in governance. The two of them had ceased to exist.
But as they turned to leave, a woman approached them. "Lynne," she said. "We have met before."
Startled, Lynne looked at her. The women was indeed somehow familiar. She was beautiful, but that wasn't it.
"We knew your brother Bry," the woman said. "When he was lost in the storm."
Then it registered. "Annette!" Lynne exclaimed. "You danced!"
"Yes, I am here with my husband to instruct courtiers in the new dances," Annette agreed. "He is busy elsewhere at the moment, so I thought I would tour the palace, which I understand is a marvel. Would you and your friend care to join me?"
Lynne realized that she had been guilty of a breach of etiquette by not thinking to introduce her companion. "This is my sister, Jessamine. Her husband is with Pierre Boucher, of New France."
"How nice to meet you," Annette said.
"Likewise, I am certain," Jessamine said politely.
"She wasn't with us, on that trip," Lynne said. "She was in the other party, looking for Bry."
"A fine young man," Annette said.
"You should see her dance," Lynne said to Jessamine. "It's wonderful!"
"We shall be holding a class in dance this afternoon," Annette said. "Perhaps you would like to join us then."
"Yes!" Lynne said eagerly.
Jessamine shrugged. Annette smiled. Then she guided them to the marvelous chamber of the palace. There were magnificent paintings on every wall, and statues in every hall. Even the tables were richly ornamented, with glistening surfaces. In fact the floors, too, were tiled with repeating patterns. A number of other people were touring too, admiring the phenomenal display of art.
But after two hours, Lynne was getting bored. She realized that she was not yet of an age to properly appreciate such a display. Fortunately they were able to go to the kitchen and get some rolls of sweet bread to eat.
Then Annette took them to the chamber reserved for practice. There were a number of ladies there, and a few men. One of the men turned out to be Annette's husband Hugh, who Lynne noticed was left-handed. It didn't matter, as he was putting together a nice wooden flute. In a moment he was playing, and the melody was sprightly. Lynne already felt like dancing.
"Today we have a new dance," Annette announced. "The dance itself is a variant of ones you may be familiar with, involving a couple, but the music differs. Now my husband will play the music, so I will need a partner to demonstrate with." She looked around smiling. She was a lovely woman, so several of the men were interested.
But before any of them stepped forward, there was a voice from the entrance. "I will do it, if you please."
Lynne looked—and was amazed. It was the king! He was surrounded by the courtiers who had the daily honor of walking with him. There was a murmur, and the men bowed and the women curtsied.
Louis paused to allow them to complete their devotions, then nodded graciously. He was every inch the monarch.
"This is a simple demonstration of the dance, perhaps beneath your notice, Your Majesty," Annette said, seeming slightly daunted herself.
"No dance is beneath my notice," Louis said, striding forward. He was resplendent in a voluminous robe, which he doffed and handed to a courtier in order to free his body for the dance. His legs were in snug white stockings, showing their perfection halfway up the thighs, and his delicate feet were in high-heeled sandals. "This is a dance lesson. Treat me as you would any other partner."
"As you wish, Sire," Annette said respectfully. "But I shall have to presume to give you direction."
"I take direction well, from lovely ladies," he said, with a slight bow. There was an appreciative chuckle among the courtiers. The king had a reputation, and evidently fostered it, for no such notice would have been taken without the knowledge of his approval of it. The courtiers struck Lynne as fawning sycophants.
The music started over, with a new cadence and melody, and Annette stood beside the king. "The motions are very small, even delicate," she said. "In fact we call it the 'minuet.' This dance is stately rather than active, but it gives a nice effect for spectators. Now you will hold my hand, so, and we shall turn around each other, facing, in measured step, so." She demonstrated, smiling at the king, and Louis moved with her, following her motion so perfectly that it seemed he had always known it. "You are apt at this," she said approvingly.
"I like the art of dance," Louis said. "I believe it to be one of the most important disciplines for training the body."
"I certainly agree."
They continued with the demonstration, and Lynne was enraptured. Annette was a perfect dancer, and so, it became clear, was the king, whose poise and grace were phenomenal. It was as if the two had always danced together. Taken as a whole, the little dance was a work of art.
The demonstration must have taken some time, but to Lynne it was only an instant before it ended. The music stopped, and Annette and Louis made token bows as the small audience burst into applause. Everyone was taken with this charming little dance, and it would surely be popular at court.
"Now we must teach the rest of you," Annette said. She glanced at the king. "Your Majesty, if you would be so kind as to choose another partner—"
Louis nodded. As Annette selected another man to dance with, the king looked over the women. Every one of them was eager to be his partner, for not only was he a monarch, he was a handsome and exceedingly graceful man. Then he strode across and proffered his hand, making another little formal bow to the one he had chosen.
"Go, girl," a woman murmured behind her. Lynne jumped. The king was asking her!
Dazed, she tried to curtsy, tripped, and stumbled forward toward the man. Horribly embarrassed, she realized she was about to crash into him. There was nothing she could do about it, though she seemed to be falling ever so slowly.
Then his hands were on her shoulders, steadying her with a power that shot right through to her ankles. "That is not the step," he murmured with a smile.
She tried to speak, but her tongue was stuck in her mouth as the flush spread across her face. What a fool she was making of herself!
"Face me, and step so," he said, taking her right hand and guiding her. He made a mincing step. She mimicked him, feeling unreal.
Then, slowly, it worked. They stepped together, she following his lead, and they were dancing the minuet. Near them Annette and her new partner were dancing too, the man following the woman's lead. He looked as uncertain as Lynne felt. But her concern was fading, as the reassuring competence of the king guided her, and after a while she was matching his steps with increasing competence.
Then the little dance was done, and she was finishing with a twirl under his hand. She saw her skirts spread out as she turned, showing her legs; it was as if she were watching from across the room. Then she finished, with a curtsy that worked just right this time, matching Louis's token bow. There was another round of applause from the audience. She had done it! She had danced the dance.
After that, it multiplied. The king danced with other ladies, and Lynne danced with other men, showing them the nice little steps. She had always liked to dance, and this was hardly a complicated or demanding one, but she was amazed at how well she had picked up on it. Louis's guidance had really helped her. She was having a wonderful time.
In due course the multiplication had taken all the men, including the courtiers who had accompanied the king, and Lynne found herself without a partner. She stood at the side, watching the others, admiring the niceties of the minuet, its little mannered moves. It was easy to do, yet also wonderful to behold. Jessamine was dancing with a courtier, and seeming to enjoy it.
Then Louis himself dropped out and came to stand beside her. "I know about your hand," he murmured.
Lynne's world imploded. "Oh!"
"Be at ease, pretty maiden. I speak not to disparage you, but to ask a favor."
"A favor," she echoed numbly.
"The politics of the court can be difficult. There is a noble for whom I would like to do a favor, so that he will not oppose support for New France. His word carries considerable weight in certain quarters. I think that if you, a lovely maiden from that province, were to dance with his son, it would be effective."
"Oh, I'm not actually from—"
"I speak figuratively. It is your dream, is it not?"
She nodded numbly. "His son?" She still had trouble accepting the fact that the king was asking a favor of her. Kings didn't ask, they commanded!
"The youth has sterling qualities and excellent breeding, but is extremely awkward with women. It would be good for him to be seen with one as beautiful as you."
He was complimenting her! This great man. "I—of course, Your Majesty. But how—?"
"I will introduce him to you. He has a club foot."
It came together. "His foot—my hand—"
"Neither infirmity reflects any defect in character or accomplishment. But I think you could reassure him. Other women have mocked him; therefore he is shy."
"Yes," she agreed, on more than one level.
"I must return to council. You may accompany me." He held out his arm.
Surprised again, she obliged, putting her right hand in the crook of his elbow. They left the dancing chamber and walked through the halls. A number of courtiers followed; it seemed that the king never went anywhere alone. She felt like a princess. Was this the way Wildflower felt, when she visited her home court?
At the council hall there was already a group of people. It was a chamber of considerable size, with many ladies in attendance, each finely garbed. Lynne realized that they must be the wives or girlfriends of the nobles, having no part in governance, but there for decorative purpose. All eyes seemed to fix on Lynne as she entered on the arm of the king. But by this time she was largely inured to embarrassment. She thought she should let go of Louis's arm, but wasn't sure, so she held on, trusting that he would tell her when.
Louis greeted several courtiers by name. Lynne heard the names, but they meant nothing to her. Until they stood before a stout, bejeweled man with a young man at his side. The young man seemed ill at ease.
"And this is Lynne, who will be traveling to New France with Captain Ittai," Louis said, straightening his elbow so that her hand slid down and away. "Lynne, this is Jacques."
This was the one! Lynne smiled at the youth. "Hello." It seemed inadequate, but was all she could think of.
"Tonight at the ball, perhaps you will dance with her," the king said to Jacques. His tone was polite, but Lynne realized that it was an order. She saw both the elder man and the younger one stiffen, almost imperceptibly; they thought the king was trying to embarrass them. She was suddenly glad that Louis had forbidden the practice of dueling, because otherwise someone might have had such a notion. But she was learning the way of court intrigue, and allowed none of her thoughts to cross her face. She just made sure she would recognize Jacques when she saw him next time.
Then the king turned away, leaving Lynne standing there before the angry courtier and his son. She had no idea what to do, so stepped back, hoping to get out of sight.
The attention of the room followed the king, so in a moment Lynne was suitably anonymous. The king took his seat, and the courtiers began a discussion of a technical matter of governance that was beyond Lynne's comprehension. Oh, she could have followed it if she had cared to put her mind to it, but what was the point? So she let it slide by her. Pierre Boucher was part of the group, as was Captain Ittai; they were surely waiting their turn for the king's attention. The ladies around the chamber began to converse with each other, quietly, so as not to interrupt the main business. Every so often one would turn an appraising glance in Lynne's direction. They were discreet, but she felt naked. Could she return to the dance class? She was afraid it might be a breach of court etiquette to depart after the king had brought her here.
"So the king threatens to humiliate the opposition's clumsy son," a lady murmured loud enough to be heard. "By having a foreign darling do it."
Lynne suffered a flash of utter rage. The tone and the implication were as clear as the words. She was being damned along with Jacques. In that moment she resolved to see that the youth suffered no shame at all because of her. In fact, in a perverse wash of feeling, she suddenly liked Jacques, because of what she knew he was suffering at the court. How well she understood that sort of prejudice! Just because a person had some physical infirmity—
Then Hugh and Annette appeared, and Jessamine, so it seemed the dance class was over. Lynne walked across the chamber to join them, relieved to find familiar faces.
But before they could settle into the background, a child entered the chamber. It was a girl, perhaps five years old, well dressed; she was probably the daughter of a noble who had lost track of her mother. She carried a small piece of parchment.
The eyes of the ladies of the court turned to this new arrival. Lynne saw more than one pair of eyes roll expressively; it seemed this child was mischief. But no one went to take the child in hand, to usher her out, which indicated that she was of royal birth.
The girl oriented on Hugh. "There you are, musician!" she exclaimed happily as she dashed up to him. "I have composed a melody. Play it for me!"
The bright, high voice cut through the murmur of the court. Now all the ladies were watching, some with masked smirks, enjoying the royal embarrassment. The king himself paused, glancing toward the sound. Lynne saw a fleeting frown cross his face; evidently he, too, recognized the child.
Hugh hesitated, then glanced at Louis. The king made a tiny nod. So Hugh took the parchment, read it, and smiled. "Of course," he said. He gave the parchment to Annette, and lifted his flute as the child waited expectantly.
The melody was simple, brief, and rather crude, as might be expected from a child. The masks were coming off the smirks; someone's parents were being royally embarrassed. Lynne saw the king frown again; apparently the embarrassment attached to him, too, peripherally. Maybe this was one of his love-children. Maybe this awkwardness would somehow solidify the opposition to the New France petition. Lynne wished she could do something, but she had no idea what.
Hugh paused, then spoke. "But this is only the theme," he said. "Now we must embellish it."
He played again. This time the melody was recognizable, but there were added notes that filled it out, making it stronger and more consistent. The child clapped her little hands, delighted. Hugh was an expert musician, and he was making the melody into something significant.
In a moment that rendition, too, was done. But Hugh was not. "Now let's give it full play," he said. "I think this is properly a dance piece."
He played the melody a third time, and now it had the sprightly cadence of a dance. It was lovely, and it invited feet to move. The little girl began to dance, in her fashion, enjoying it.
Annette joined her, smiling, doing a variant of the minuet. Suddenly what had been, perhaps, a joke became lovely: the woman and the girl stepping around each other in the stately manner of the dance.
Lynne saw Louis nod appreciatively. The embarrassment of the situation was fading, thanks to the courtesy of the musician and the dancer.
Lynne had a sudden notion. She crossed the chamber to approach the club-footed youth. "Dance with me, Jacques," she said, flashing him a winning smile.
He looked like a trapped animal. "You mock me!" he muttered.
He didn't know. "No. Let me show you something." She caught his left hand with her right, and drew the sullen youth to an alcove. Sheltered by that, she had him face toward the wall beside her. Then she drew off the specially tailored five-fingered glove on her left hand. It was cunningly designed to mask the extra breadth of one of the fingers, so that two of hers could fit within it. "Believe me, I wouldn't mock you," she said, wiggling her fingers. "Please do not tell."
He stared. "But you're so pretty!" he protested.
"And you are handsome. Come—the dance is simple, and you will not have to move much. I know you can do it." She pulled her glove back on and drew him from the alcove.
He seemed dazed. Then he took her hand. "Very small steps, slow," she said. "Then turn me." She lifted his hand and turned under it.
He nodded. He could do it, and the smallness of the motions masked his incapacity of the foot. He understood how to dance, and adapted readily to this variation. All he needed was a supportive partner.
They moved out on to the main floor, dancing with increasing competence. Lynne saw that courtiers and ladies alike were staring, astonished by this sight. "They think I showed you something else," she said, giggling.
Jacques laughed. "I won't tell."
Now others were joining the dance, somewhat in the manner of the dancing class. Lynne realized that Louis himself had left the meeting and chosen a partner; that was why everyone was suddenly doing it. What had been an embarrassment had become an occasion.
Then, after a glance from the king, Hugh brought the music to a halt. "Delightful piece," Louis said. "You must play it at the ball tonight." He glanced at the child. "And you must go tell your mother how well you have done as a composer."
The child ran off. The king turned back to the meeting. The interruption was done.
But Lynne remained with Jacques. "You did beautifully," she said.
"I did, didn't I!" he agreed, amazed. "Because of you."
"The king said you were a good man."
"The king is just trying to get support for the New France project."
"Yes, of course. That's why he introduced me to you."
"And now you will go there, and I will never see you again."
She glanced at him. "Would you like to see me again?"
"Yes. You understand."
"I understand," she agreed. "Could you come too?"
He was surprised. "To New France? How could I?"
"It is a hard trip of three or four months across the sea, and a difficult, frontier life, with many dangers," she said. "But a man can use an axe, or a gun, or a spade. I understand there is a fortune to be made in the fur trade. He doesn't have to run or dance."
He considered, amazed at the prospect. "With you?"
"Well, I hardly know you," she demurred. "But why don't we get better acquainted, and see?"
Then she leaned forward and kissed him, lightly. She had a feeling that this would work out.
Louis XIV authorized 100 troops and 200 indentured laborers to join Boucher on his return trip to Quebec in 1662. This was small, but represented a compromise with the conflicting forces of the court. Though the fortune of France in the New World was less than that of England and Spain, the French presence in Quebec remains significant today, and French is one of the official languages of the region.
The little dance, the minuet, became quite popular in all the courts of Europe, and remains a staple of the dance form today.
World War I devastated Europe. France suffered horrible casualties: 73 percent of her total forces mobilized, including almost two million men dead or missing. France was on the winning side, but it was a Pyrrhic victory; another such victory would finish her as a nation. Yet another such war was already threatening, as Nazi Germany gained strength and brutality. With manpower at a premium, France's military strategists turned away from the idea of aggressive response and counterattack. They believed that the key to national defense should be a heavily fortified border, and "battlefields prepared in peacetime." The French experience with Verdun in World War I had satisfied the leaders that a strong line of trenches and permanent fortifications could be defended indefinitely against any odds. They were, of course, preparing to fight the last war again, a classic error of the military mind. But it did seem to be the best choice at the time. Thus they built the Maginot Line.
Actually the Maginot Line could have served its purpose well, had it been fully implemented. But as with the Chinese Wall, its builders suffered from insufficient funds, and politics got in the way. For example, it covered the border France had with Germany, but was not extended to the sea, because Belgium was an ally, with its own defensive line, and it would not look good to build such fortifications along that border. Besides, they decided, the forested Ardennes region through which German forces would have to pass was virtually impenetrable. A few blockhouses and some ready forces would pinch off any invaders as they emerged from the forests. In retrospect this was sheer folly; the Germans simply forged through with tanks and aircraft, and thus avoided the Maginot Line in much the manner the Mongols avoided the Chinese Wall. But hindsight is a cheap shot; at the time it seemed reasonable. At the time the line was designed, both armor and air force were considered to be curiosities rather than strategic weapons. No country in the world had formed an armored brigade or an offensively effective air force. Even so, had the line been completed as originally envisioned, it well might have repelled the Germans, because their costs in penetrating it would have weakened them too much for the conquest of the remainder of France. Actually they did penetrate it—but that was after its purpose had become moot because of the Belgian bypass.
So what was the Maginot Line actually like? It was activated once, before the war. In March 1936 Adolf Hitler moved German troops into the Rhineland, violating the demilitarization of the region agreed by treaty. France, in response, ordered a full mobilization of its defensive perimeter. The Maginot Line was fully manned for the first time.
SAM WAS LOADING AMMUNITION ONTO a railroad car when he got the call. "Sam—your brother is on the phone."
That would be Ned. There were those who thought Sam should be resentful of the fact that his little brother was an officer while he was an enlisted man, but Sam could have been an officer if he wanted command. He preferred to exercise his muscles and leave the management to others. Ned had the mind for tactics and strategy, so was an officer. His only problem qualifying had been his German wife, Wildflower, who the officials suspected was potentially disloyal. But she had finally been cleared, and he was doing well. Sam was glad. After all, his own wife, Snow, was Austrian. What counted was not a person's origin, but her loyalty to family and nation.
He picked up the receiver. "Sam here."
"Ned. I have a problem. I brought Bry in to see his friend Jacques, but there's a problem down the line and I have to investigate it. Can you take Bry instead?"
"Bry shouldn't be here during an active alert!" Sam protested. "Don't you know that? He's underage."
"Officer's prerogative. If it comes to war, we could have women and children manning our bulwarks, so they had better be prepared. Bry's sixteen, old enough to learn the way of it. But I have to go to a region not cleared for civilians. So if you could take him on to Jacques—"
Something was going on. Ned wouldn't have called him about a routine thing that he could have assigned any private to do. "Where are you?"
"At the command post nearest your block. I'll wait for you."
"Yes, sir," Sam said, with the faintest edge. How could Ned have brought Bry in during this activation, when there were bound to be emergencies?
He checked with his subaltern, who took his word; that was an advantage of being reliable. If his brother the captain needed him, he was available.
He rode the ammunition train down the tunnel to the main depot, then reported to the personnel section. There was Ned, quite striking in his uniform, and his younger sibling.
Sam's face froze. It wasn't Bry—it was Lynn! She had a heavy hat over her bound hair, and wore male coveralls and shoes, but he had no problem distinguishing his brothers from his sisters. Suddenly he knew why Ned had called him. If word got out that there was a girl here...
"Sam will get you there, Bry," Ned said. "I must be on my way." He nodded to Sam, and walked away.
"Well, Bry," Sam said, slowly shaking his head. "How did you ever talk Ned into this?"
"Wildflower did it," Lynn murmured.
Wildflower. Lynn's closest friend, more sister than sister-in-law. Ned had taken time to notice her, thinking of her as a little sister, but once she had succeeded in making an impression on him, her slightest wish had become his command.
"And why did Wildflower do it?"
"I asked her." Then, before he could question that, she added, "I haven't seen Jacques in two weeks."
Two weeks. And at her age, that was like two years. So, dying for romance, she had prevailed on her brilliant but in some ways soft-headed brother to bring her in to visit her boyfriend. New love was heedless of consequences. And now Sam was stuck with this treacherous chore.
"Snow sends her love," Lynn added.
How could he be mad at her? Lynn had always had his number. She was such a small, pretty thing, in such need of protection because of her hand, that they all served her in their ways. She took advantage of that, and they all knew it, but it remained almost impossible to say no to her. She had reminded him of his own romance, kindled during a trip to Austria at the time when his first marriage was breaking up. Second love had proved to be better than first love. He didn't like being separated from Snow, but because she was his wife, he did get leave time to be with her. Lynn and Jacques lacked that avenue, being merely in love.
"This way," he said gruffly.
"Thank you, Sam." She wasn't fooled; she knew he was glad of her company despite the circumstance. Family members always liked to be together, whatever the circumstance; they watched out for each other.
Another ammunition train was going out. Sam waved to the diesel engineer, and the man slowed the engine enough to let them hop on to a car. Cooperation was essential, in order to get the confusions straightened and the work done. Sam lifted Lynn up onto a rack of shells, then stood beside her.
"You're so strong," she said.
"And you're so light," he said. "Save your charm for Jacques. But make sure you answer only to the name Bry."
She laughed. She was enjoying this adventure, heedless of the inconvenience to others. She kicked her feet against the metal below her.
"I wouldn't," he said. "That's high explosive."
The feet stopped. "It must really be fun, here in these tunnels all day."
"It's dull." But now, seeing it through her eyes, he realized that the scene was remarkable. The train was following its tracks down the lighted tunnel, which was six meters high and seven meters wide, with a power line running along its ceiling. The half-circle dome of concrete was bleak and dirty, but for a young person, surely thrilling.
"Ooooh—a turnoff!" she exclaimed.
"That leads to the main magazine of the ouvrage, the main fort," Sam explained. "But this load is going farther down the line."
"How deep down are we?"
"About fifty meters."
She laughed. "Fancy a whole train going through the ground!"
"It's to ensure that German bombs can't interfere with our communications."
The tunnel narrowed. "Are we there?"
"No, just passing through a section where the tunnel can be closed off by a seventeen ton blast door."
"Ooooh," she repeated, suitably awed.
Beyond the narrowing, the tunnels split again. "That goes to the barracks," Sam explained. "But we have to go on to Jacques's block, some distance down the line. He is stationed at one of the smaller casemates."
"Jacques," she breathed, her eyes shining.
Sam thought again of Snow. How could be begrudge that delight to his little sister?
The train slowed. It was reaching its exit to the surface. "We'll have to get off here," Sam said. "And walk on down. It's not far."
He helped her down to the base of the car. Then as the train emerged into the light of day, they both jumped off. Sam waved to the engineer as the engine disappeared into the landscape.
"There's an incomplete shunt going in that direction," Sam said. "We can follow that a way, if you like the tunnels."
"I love them. Besides, it's cold out here in the wind."
So they turned back into the tunnel, and took the turnoff that led in the right direction. The isolated casemates were not connected in the way the major forts were; there was simply too much terrain to cover. Sam would have liked to show off one of the cannons that could rise to the surface to fire, and descend into the depths at other times, but the authorities would never allow such a breach of security.
They moved on down the passage. Lynn walked along a rail, spreading her arms for balance. She got little joys from everything.
"By the way, Hugh knows Guillaume," she remarked.
Sam was lost by this non sequitur. "Who knows whom?"
"Hugh, the musician with the lovely dancing wife." She paused, giving Sam time to make the connection. He did remember that wife. "He knows Guillaume—Jacques's commanding officer. That's how Ned got clearance for Bry's visit to the block."
"But what about a girl?"
"That would be more complicated."
To be sure.
Then they came to another turnoff. "What a labyrinth!" Lynn remarked, loving it.
"It's less complicated than it seems. The tunnels connect the magazines where the ammunition is stored, the main barracks, the cannons—"
"It's still fun to explore."
They followed the tracks through an airlock. It was open at the moment, but the massive panels could be seen. "That's so that nothing can get at the defenders," Sam explained. "Especially not poison gas."
"Poison gas! Would they do that?"
"They might. We can't presume too much on the good graces of an enemy."
Then they came to a region where water dripped from the ceiling. "This shouldn't be," Sam said, disgusted. "How can it be airtight, if it's not watertight?"
"Somebody's going to get in trouble!" Lynn said in a naughty sing-song.
"No, we'll just have to get it fixed. Meanwhile, this is our only way through. We'll just have to avoid the drips."
But the drips got worse. At one point there was a veritable sheet of water coming down, and the floor of the tunnel was flooding. Sam tramped through, his boots protecting his feet. But Lynn, walking on the rail, lost her balance and fell full length into a puddle. There was a great splash.
Sam leaped to help her. "Are you hurt? Oh, Lynn—"
"Bry," she said wryly. "No, I'm all right. The water cushioned my fall. But I'm all wet."
"We'll have to get you changed. It's cold in here."
"I know." She was turning blue.
"The block barracks is right ahead. They'll have clothing."
"Sam." Her tone made him stop. "I can't change here."
Oh. Of course. She would be revealed as a girl.
Sam pondered, but couldn't think of an alternative. "You need to strip, to get dry, and put on new clothes. And get warm. I might bring some clothing out here, but—"
"Someone might come," she agreed. "I guess I better not change."
But her teeth were chattering. If she caught cold, and it led to pneumonia, and—what would Flo say? "We must get you warm," he said.
"No, I'll get by. It's my own fault. I shouldn't have come."
How could he blame her, when she blamed herself? "Come on. There has to be a way."
"Let's just hurry there."
They climbed endless stairs to the surface, where a guard checked Sam's credentials and let them out. Now they were beside an ordinary road, with a path leading through hills to the rear of an almost buried bunker. Sam wished their destination were closer, but at least the fast walk helped warm her.
He led her the rest of the way to the casemate, which was the combat block where Jacques was stationed. It had fifteen men and a lieutenant, with barely room for them and the supplies. They entered it from behind. Sam had to get permission to enter from the officer in charge before a metal grate dropped across a deep ditch and the armored door opened to admit them.
Sam saluted. "Sam and Bry reporting, sir."
"This is highly irregular," the lieutenant said, returning the salute. "We are on alert; no visitors are permitted."
But he had admitted them. "The musician sends his appreciation," Sam murmured.
The lieutenant nodded curtly. Evidently he was repaying a favor, but was not completely comfortable with the matter. Then he saw Lynn. "But the boy's soaking wet!"
"There is a leak in the transport tunnel," Sam said. "We must notify the command post."
"We already have. They say they will get to it in due course." The lieutenant grimaced. "It seems that there are many such leaks. No one noticed, until the alert came." He looked again at Lynn. "He is shivering and blue; he must be changed immediately."
"He—prefers not," Sam said. "He has no other clothes."
"We have supplies. I will have a man attend to it." The lieutenant turned, about to give an order.
"Please, sir, no," Sam said quickly.
The man frowned. Officers did not like hearing the word "no" from enlisted personnel. "No?"
Sam wished he had Ned's ready mind. He couldn't think of a suitable explanation. "He—he is uncomfortable changing in the presence of others."
"But he will have to. We have no privacy here, no spare space at all."
"Still, sir," Sam said awkwardly.
The lieutenant's eyes narrowed. "What are you concealing?" Then, as Sam hesitated: "That is an order, sergeant."
Worse and worse! But what could he do? Sam leaned forward and whispered, "He's a girl. Lynn. Bry's sister."
The lieutenant's look of astonishment was abruptly replaced by a cold mask. "Come with me." He made a military turn and descended a curving flight of steps.
They followed him to the basement, where the troops bunked. The lieutenant led them into his tiny separate room and closed the door. "Explain."
Sam looked helplessly at Lynn.
"I just had to see Jacques," she said. "I love him! I didn't know I was going to get wet." Her face was wet with more than the puddle; she was crying.
The lieutenant reacted in the classic French manner. "Ah, love." He faced Sam. "I will fix this. But there will be no word of it outside."
"No word," Sam agreed. No one wanted a scandal, least of all the officer who would be held responsible.
The lieutenant spoke into his phone. "Jacques—bring a complete change of clothing to the CO's room. Small size."
"Jacques!" Lynn echoed, brightening.
In a moment there was a knock on the door. The lieutenant opened it. A smartly uniformed young man was there. "Jacques, you will have precisely ten minutes to handle this matter in complete privacy before we return." Then he stepped out, his eyes signaling Sam to follow.
Jacques looked confused. Then he saw Lynn. "Yes sir!"
Sam exited, and Jacques entered, limping, and the lieutenant closed the door behind them. "Perhaps you can return with a personal report, possibly eliciting some action on the flooding tunnel," the lieutenant said, showing the way into the adjacent barracks, where several soldiers were sleeping. Because the block had to be vigilant twenty-four hours a day, the troops worked in three shifts. One soldier was awake, but studiously ignored them; Sam suspected that standing orders were to pay no attention to the commanding officer unless he asked for it. "It isn't simply the leaks; supplies are incomplete, so that we could withstand a genuine siege of only a few days. Our block is inadequately heated, as your little brother has noted. Lighting is sparse, and no provision has been made for decoration." He gestured at the triple-decker metal frame that held fifteen bunks. "No paint on ceiling or walls, no pictures, no decent floor covering. No privacy. This is bleak indeed. We are patriotic, but I believe we are entitled to at least minimal amenities while we serve our country."
"Yes sir," Sam said with feeling. "I will tell them."
"And Hugh—you have seen him recently?"
"Actually, Bry is the one of us who knows him best. Bry stayed with their family for some time, when he was young. But I think I would know Anne anywhere, by Bry's description."
"You would," the lieutenant agreed. "It has been some time for me also. We were neighbors, and our children mingled. Perhaps we shall meet again, in due course."
"I think Bry was somewhat smitten with her, though he was only eleven at the time."
"She is that type of woman. And her daughter Mina is even more so, despite being adopted. A truly winsome girl."
Sam had not met the lieutenant before, but found himself liking the man. There was a certain aura of intelligence about him that Ned would have related to.
"And I understand that in addition to your brother Bry, you also have a little sister, said to be a similarly lovely creature," the lieutenant continued after a moment. He spoke obliquely, because they could be overheard.
"Yes."
"Understand, I have no wish to intrude on the affairs of your family. But my men are a personal concern to me, and I wish to see none of them hurt, other than in the line of duty." He smiled briefly, indicating the fleeting humor; of course he didn't want anyone hurt in the line of duty either. "This little sister has an interest in someone?"
"Yes."
"Even if someone has an infirmity?"
"Yes."
"Not just because he is the son of a general?"
"No. She understands. She has her own infirmity."
"I am glad to hear it, no offense intended."
"I am glad you have an interest in the welfare of your men, sir."
The lieutenant shrugged. "I have an interest in surviving an attack. Every man must be at optimum performance. The Germans are devising horrors we little anticipate."
"My brother Ned believes that we are preparing to fight the last war, while the Germans are preparing for the next war."
"Precisely. Therefore I hope it never comes to war." In ten minutes they returned to the lieutenant's office.
Lynn had changed, and was now in a baggy but dry uniform, seeming happy. She looked like a twelve year old boy rather than a sixteen year old girl.
"Now that your friend has taken so much trouble to visit you, Jacques, why don't you give him a tour of the block?" the lieutenant inquired. "Let's see how much you really know of our business."
"Yes, sir!" Jacques agreed eagerly. "But my station—"
"I will cover for you. I could use the practice."
"Yes, sir," Jacques repeated. Then, to Lynn, "I will show you everything."
"I suppose that's fair," the lieutenant murmured so that only Sam could hear. "He has already seen everything his friend possesses."
Sam had to smile. Lynn was a beautiful girl, with one exception, and in the course of changing and drying she had surely showed all of it off.
They went to the firing chamber on the upper floor. This was right above the crew room. A soldier stood there with a two barrel machine gun pointing out an armored window. Sam saw that he had a good view of the terrain outside; he would be able to riddle anything approaching on this side of the block. Except a tank.
"I read your thought, sergeant." The lieutenant spoke to the man. "I am substituting for Jacques at the moment. What would we do if we saw a tank charging us?"
The man immediately swung his machine gun away to the right, clearing the window. Meanwhile the lieutenant unstrapped and pushed forward a larger gun suspended from a rail on the ceiling. "This is our forty-seven millimeter anti-tank gun," he said, looking along its sights. "I think it would be a bold tank that charged directly into this field of fire."
Sam had to agree. Tanks were deadly, but the gun was designed to take them out.
Jacques and Lynn appeared. "And this is my station," the young man said. "We have a twin machine gun, which is our main anti-personnel weapon, and an anti-tank gun. So if the enemy tries to flank us, avoiding our weapons turrets, we can mow him down. No one will get past this post."
The lieutenant turned to Sam. "Makes it all seem worthwhile, doesn't it," he remarked wryly.
Sam had to agree. "But my brother Ned wonders what will happen if the enemy goes around the line."
The lieutenant nodded soberly. "I hope your brother has the ear of the higher authorities. We shall do our part, here, but will they do theirs?"
The question gave Sam a chill, as it always did.
Indeed, the French were completely unready for the German blitzkrieg in 1939, the highly mobile tactics that bypassed the Maginot Line with its underground cannon, formidable anti-aircraft guns, and well secured bunkers. The German forces came through the supposedly impenetrable Belgian forest and spread out too rapidly to stop. France was effectively conquered in days, the Maginot Line largely untouched. It is now thought of as folly, but it would have served well enough if made complete.
Later, of course, weapons like the atomic bomb made all such defenses obsolete. But for its time, the Maginot Line concept was worthwhile as a stop-gap measure. It was the implementation that was inadequate.
As population increased, and resources decreased, the squeeze affected human societies in at first subtle, then more obvious ways. The third world nations suffered waves of starvation and illness; the first world nations suffered financial and economic disruptions. Politics became turbulent, and elections were supplemented by assassinations. The hearts of the cities became arenas for increasingly random violence by ever-younger gangs. It was clear to some that the end of the current way of life was approaching, but the majority refused to recognize the deadly underlying trends. What, then, were those few to do? The setting is eastern America; the time is 1995.
"LOOK AT THAT," BRY SAID. "They've got that new game on CD. Let's get it."
"No you don't," Lin protested. "We've got a budget."
"I'll buy it," Jack offered.
Now Bry backed off. "No. She's right. We don't need to sponge off you."
"Wildflower's at the checkout," Lin said.
They walked to join her, and Bry took the bag as she cleared the cash register. They went out of the store and out of the mall, walking home at a leisurely pace so as not to embarrass Jack. It was a nice summer afternoon in Washington, D.C.
But as they neared the housing project, a group of youths appeared. "Hey, bitch!" one yelled at Wildflower. "You trying to play white?"
Bry felt a chill. The gangs were getting worse. They were ranging out farther, and looking more constantly for trouble. These boys evidently took Wildflower for black, and wanted to make something of it. She was a Moslem from Egypt, and her skin was darker than some. So the gang was trying to reserve this territory for whites only.
"Just keep moving," Bry said. "Maybe they're just passing by."
"Routine insults," Lin agreed. "But we'd better hurry, just in case."
But when they picked up their speed, Jack's limp showed. The gang members turned to follow. "Hey, gimpy—what you want with that black slut? How much you paying her?"
"Don't respond," Bry advised. "Just keep walking."
But it did no good. With two targets, the gang kids had enough to interest them for a while. They followed more closely, hooting, and some ran ahead to block off the entrance to the project. "Hey, doll!" one called to Lin. "Wanna make it with a real man?" He was evidently the leader, though he could not be more than sixteen.
They came to the intersection and tried to make the turn, but the gang kids stood squarely in the way. "Pay the toll, troll," one said, reaching for the bag Bry carried.
Jack stepped across and knocked the hand away. The four of them shoved forward, brushing by the kids, entering the street leading into the project.
"Oh, gimpy's tough!" one cried mockingly. "I'm scared!" Then he drew a knife.
All around them knives appeared.
It could be worse, Bry realized. Guns were increasingly common on the street. The main advantage of knives was their silence, but it was getting so that juvenile thugs no longer cared about noise.
"Run for it!" Lin cried.
They tried, but immediately two gang kids went after Lin, catching her by the arms. The others closed on the other three, their knives held forward menacingly. "You ain't going nowhere, you turds," the leader said. "You wanna get cut?"
They had to stop. Even if the other three made it to the project, Lin was caught and would pay the price. Bry noted that the inexperience of this gang was showing; many of the pejorative terms used were childish rather than savage. There was about as much bluster as action. That made it worse; if amateurs were getting this bad, what were the hardened professional gangs up to?
"That's better," the leader said, enjoying his power over them. "Okay, black bitch, you first: take it off."
Bry realized that there was a protocol: humiliate the black woman first, while the others watched. To send the message: stay out of white territory. They might not be able to justify raping a pretty white girl, but a black one was fair game.
"No!" Lin cried.
"Make her scream," the leader said without turning.
One of the kids holding Lin twisted her arm. She screamed.
Wildflower flinched. She knew what rape was like. She didn't want Lin to suffer it. She started to take off her clothes.
"Hey, hey!" the boys said, smiling. They had seen that Wildflower had a nice figure; now they were eager to confirm its details, feeling very naughty. They were nevertheless working themselves up, and some of them would indeed try to complete the rape.
Bry looked desperately around, but there were no police near, and no one else was coming to their rescue. That was par for the course, at night. Now it was happening in broad daylight. What could they do? Even without the knives, the four of them would have been no match for the gang. Jack had a bad foot, Bry was holding the bag, and the two girls couldn't fight.
Wildflower pulled off her red blouse, standing in skirt and bra. At age eighteen, she was a fine figure of a woman. "Yeah, yeah!" the kids agreed, ogling. They were young enough not to have had much actual sexual experience. They would have seen pornographic videos galore, but reality was much more compelling.
Wildflower waved the blouse over her head, like a flag. "More, more!" the boys cried gleefully.
There was the whistle of a bullet, followed by the sound of a shot from the project. The boys wheeled to look—and another bullet struck the road almost at their feet.
"Another time, bitch!" the leader cried as the gang members fled.
"You signaled Jes!" Lin exclaimed, catching on.
Wildflower nodded as she pulled her blouse back on. Then the four of them resumed their walk to the project.
Flo met them at the door. She was grim. "If I hadn't heard you scream—"
"And if Jes wasn't a dead shot with that rifle," Lin said, relieved.
"You did nothing to provoke them?"
"We were just walking. But they didn't like Wildflower's color."
Jes appeared, carrying her baby. She had fired from the upstairs window. The sound of the shots must have awakened the baby. But she had done what she had to do.
That night, when the men were home, they had a family meeting. "We can't have this," Ned declared, furious because of the threat to his wife.
"We can't afford better housing," Flo reminded him. "Anyway, the trouble is spreading to the 'good' neighborhoods now. The city isn't safe. Soon no city will be safe."
"And no town," Dirk added. "Violence isn't just for ghettoes any more."
"Where else can we go?" Snow asked. She was foreign-born, like Wildflower, and was having trouble finding work.
"I saw something," Bry said, remembering. "An ad. Maybe it's for us." He dashed to find the newspaper, searching out the section. "Here." He gave it to Flo.
" 'Planned community looking for skilled personnel in the following occupations,' " she read. Her eyes skimmed across the listing. " 'CAD—Computer Aided Design.' " She looked up. "That's you, Ned." She returned to the list. " 'Heavy construction.' That's you, Sam. 'Project organizer.' That's you, Ittai. 'Large-scale cook.' "
"That's you!" several others cried, laughing.
"What's the small print?" Ned asked.
"There isn't any," Flo said. "There's only a blind box."
"A what?" Sam asked.
Flo smiled, briefly. "Sam, your age is showing. It's a newspaper box, protecting the anonymity of the advertising party. There's no way to find out who is behind it except by answering."
Snow was interested. "But suppose you are looking for another job, and the ad is by your present employer? You could get fired, because—"
"Then you list a 'destroy' address: if your response is headed for the named company, destroy it instead of delivering it. You can list any number of such addresses, to avoid past and present employers, estranged spouses, aggressive creditors, government agencies—"
"Hey, neat!" Lin cried. "Let's list that juvenile street gang." But no one laughed.
"So this is an essentially anonymous ad," Ned said. "With no indication of rates of pay, location, working conditions, duration, or benefits."
"So maybe we'd better ask," Flo said. "We don't have to sign up for anything we don't like. But we could certainly use some of these jobs, especially if they are together."
"It does say 'planned community,' " Dirk said. "That suggests something out of the city, with a lot of setting up to do. I rather like the notion, if it's valid."
"There certainly isn't much to hold us in this city," Ned said, with a glance at Wildflower.
"There isn't much in this culture to hold us," Ittai said grimly. "Companies are downsizing, jobs are scarce, and the average wage earner is making substantially less in real terms than he made twenty years ago, with no sign of improvement in the future. The welfare roles are increasing, while benefits are being cut. Things are worsening on every front. People are getting mired in debt they can't escape."
"Company store," Ned said. "The pay is such, and the prices such, that most folk can only sink lower. That's the beauty of it, by company logic: the subtle creation of a virtual slave class, while the owners reap record profits."
"St. Peter don't you call me, 'cause I can't go," Lin singsonged, echoing an old song she had picked up in the schoolyard. "I owe my soul to the company store."
Ittai nodded. "We do seem to be in a company store society. But I suspect it's not as simple as a conspiracy by the haves to further deprive the have-nots. The resources of the world are being depleted, and there simply is not enough to go around. So everyone is scrambling for what remains, and an increasing number are losing out."
"Musical chairs," Bry said. "There's always one chair too few, so someone loses."
"A nice enough analogy," Ittai agreed. "I believe that when the livelihood of families is strained, with both parents having to work outside the home, or single-parent families with that parent working or forced onto welfare, the children are inevitably neglected. They turn to their peer groups, and we get street gangs. The next stage will be what we already see in third world countries: mass starvation, food riots, class warfare, and revolution that accomplishes little other than intensification of the misery."
"We have to get out of this game," Lin said. The others nodded soberly.
"So maybe this planned community has the same idea," Flo said. "Get out of the city, get self-sufficient, get independent of the company store, have enough chairs."
"It works for me," Lin said.
"So let's answer this ad," Flo said, looking around. No one objected.
Two weeks later they were on their way to Dreams, a planned community in southern Pennsylvania, near the Maryland border. They drove in both their vans, a convoy of two, watching out for each other in case one broke down. It was the family way. Counting the baby, the full family now numbered fifteen, because Jack had elected to come along. It wasn't just that he was engaged to Lin and wanted to be with her; he felt at home with a family that accepted him without reservation. His family was wealthy, and Jack was prepared to be generous with money, if asked. But he was never asked. So he lived as they did, fitting in, and liked it.
Jack and Lin and Bry rode together in the rear seat, Lin in the middle, her left hand holding Jack's right hand, their fingers interleaved so that hers fell outside his on both sides, and her left foot touched his clubbed right foot. Bry was privately jealous of their intimacy. It wasn't that Jack had come between Bry and his sister, for he had not; it was that Bry lacked an equivalent girlfriend. Someone beautiful but in some way tainted or marked. He knew that a psychiatrist would consider his taste to be warped, but Bry understood his own dream. Marked people could be like pearls among swine, real bargains for those who looked.
In three hours they were in the Appalachians, looking for the turnoff to Amaranth, a town so small that it wasn't on their roadmap. It was supposed to be about ten miles north of the Potomac River's northernmost loop, where it almost pinched off the western tip of Maryland. Then they explored the back roads until at last they found the entrance to Dreams. The scenery was phenomenal; this was true mountain country, largely forested, and barely touched by the works of man.
An elder man came out to meet them as they climbed out and looked around. "Greetings. You would be the visiting family?"
"We are," Flo said.
"I am Marc, with a c. I am one of the elders of the community. We have a house for you, but regret that it is as yet unfinished."
"I'm sure we'll make do," Flo said. "Where do we check in?"
"There is no checking in as such. You will introduce yourselves at the evening meal, and any community members you meet will introduce themselves to you, until you know them. I will conduct you to the various working sites. I think you will know soon enough whether these are compatible, and we shall come to know you too."
"So we'll know whether we really want to join Dreams," Flo agreed. "But we'd like to learn more of the community philosophy and outlook."
"There are informal community meetings every evening, where discussion and group activities occur."
"Well, that's fine. But I understand that this is a religious community. We aren't sure that we—"
"The project is founded and funded by volunteers associated with the Religious Society of Friends, commonly called Quakers, in conjunction with the American Friends Service Committee, or AFSC, a globally charitable organization. So we do have weekly Meetings. But attendance is not mandatory, and we don't require that others join. But I must advise you that pacifism is a tenet of our religion, and those who profess or practice violence will not be welcome here. This is something you will have to judge as you work with us. We are short-handed because others have found this aspect unsuitable. We do not require that you adopt pacifism as a philosophy, just that you practice no violence of word or action on these, our premises. Similarly, no flesh of animals is served here; you will have to seek that elsewhere."
"Understood," Flo said for all of them. "We will behave appropriately while here. So you don't have a problem with, for example, non-Christians. Ned and Wildflower are Moslem."
"As long as they do not proselytize. We encourage discussion of religion in all its forms, and they are welcome to clarify their belief for us, but we frown on efforts to convert. We will not try to convert you."
"Fair enough," Ned said.
"However, those of you who elect to remain with us will be expected to convert to the extent of becoming familiar with our essential philosophy, and supporting it. We would ask, for example, that the young lady refrain from wearing a weapon while in the community."
Jes nodded. "What about during this trial period?"
"Thee is free to do as thee wishes, as thee is uncommitted."
All of them were startled. "Thee?" Jes asked.
Marc smiled. "I apologize for not clarifying this earlier. We who are committed tend to use the plain talk, which derives from the manner the Quakers—that is, the Religious Society of Friends—spoke in an earlier age. It fell gradually out of favor in recent times, but we regard Dreams as a new beginning, and so the use of plain talk seems appropriate. This affectation is not required of thee."
"But you weren't doing it before."
"Second person singular is 'thee.' Second person plural is 'you.' I was addressing the group of you before, not thee personally."
"Oh." Jes was evidently intrigued, as were the rest of them.
They trouped to the house, which turned out to be of the modern log cabin type, a sturdy and large two story structure with a number of rooms, but unfinished inside. "There has been so much to do, that this lacked priority," Marc explained. "We hope that in winter, when outdoor work—gardening, and so on—is not feasible, we will be able to catch up on interior work."
"It will do," Flo said. "Those of us with skills for you will see to those now; the others can unload the cars and set up the house." She looked around. "Snow and I will head for your kitchen. Ned and Bry will go to your computer designing facility. Ittai will go to your organizing section. And Sam will help with your brute work."
Soon Ned and Bry were in the Dreams computer room, adjacent to the machine shop. A man looked up from the computer. "These are Ned and Bry, our visitors," Marc said. Then he left.
The man stood and came over to shake hands. "Bill. Does thee know CAD?"
"Yes," Ned said. "But not necessarily your particular program."
"It varies. How is thee on the Stirling engine?"
"Archaic external combustion engine," Ned said. "Intriguing, but it lost out to the internal combustion engine because of the problem with bearings and low mechanical efficiency."
"Suppose it could be hermetically sealed, with no external piston?"
"That would solve one problem, but generate several others. Such as how to make it perform work."
"Let me introduce thee to the Solar Stirling engine, which we propose to use for generating electricity."
"Solar! For electricity! That would do it. But the technology—"
"Can be tricky in detail. Right this way."
In the shop was a squat device somewhat like a bomb, Bry tried to look interested, but engines weren't his specialty, and this one seemed comprehensible only to Bill and Ned. It didn't even seem to have any moving parts.
Bill glanced at him. "This must be pretty dull for thee, Bry. Why don't thee go on out back and ask my daughter Faience to show thee around? It may be hours before we're back on the computer."
"Okay," Bry agreed gratefully. He went out in the indicated direction.
There was a girl of about fourteen working on basket weaving. There were mounds of fibrous material around. She looked up as Bry approached. "Hello. I'm Faience."
"I'm Bry. My family just arrived for a trial visit. Your father said you might show me around."
"Glad to, unless you'd rather learn basket weaving."
"No, computer games are more my style."
"Mine too. But we have to wait for off hours. Thou shalt not waste prime computer time, and all that." She put aside her materials and stood up. She was a plain girl with freckles, but seemed pleasant. "Right," she said as if reading his mind. "I'm not much to look at, but I've got personality. Or something."
"I didn't say—"
"You didn't have to. Come on. I'll show you the pump. You know what a hydraulic ram is?"
"Either an animal or a machine, I think."
She laughed. "Right! Do you like to run?"
"For about a hundred yards."
"Then follow me." She set off across the field at a run, her shortish hair fluffing out. She was lean, and ran well; it was a job to catch up with her, and then he was out of breath.
She slowed somewhat. "Sorry, didn't mean to tease you. I just love it out here so well I can't help myself."
"I just wanted to stay behind to watch your jeans," he panted.
She laughed again. "That's a lie I can live with." She slowed to a walk.
"But I wasn't—"
She turned to face him. "Don't lie for real. That would ruin our friendship, and it has hardly begun. No one considers me romantic; I'm too young and too plain. But I do make a good friend."
"Okay. I'm new here, and I don't know if we'll stay more than a month. I could use a friend for that month."
"Done! Do you like movies?"
"Yes."
"We can get a ride into Hagerstown tomorrow and see one. I like company when I leave Dreams."
"But don't we have to work? I understood that in a planned community, everybody has his job."
"That's true. But tomorrow's Saturday. We work during the week, we attend Meeting on Sunday and relax in quiet, cultural, or educational ways. Oh, it's not bad, and I do like the folk singing, but Saturday's my chance to be a regular irresponsible teen. Do you have any sisters?"
"Three. The elder two are married, but Lin's my age and she still likes movies. Maybe she and Jack will join us. Jack's her boyfriend; they're pretty serious."
"Great!" They were now descending a steep forested slope, following a pipe that made a knocking sound every second.
"Um, Faience, if I may ask—I notice you don't use the plain talk."
"Well, that depends. Mom and Dad do, in the community, but not outside. I'm just here because they are; I'm not committed on my own. So Bille—that's my brother—and I figure it would be, well, not exactly a lie, but misleading to use it, until such time as we are committed on our own. But when someone uses it to me, I do tend to respond in kind. It's no big deal."
"So if I said thee to you, you would say thee to me."
"Yeah," she said, smiling. "I would say thee to thee."
"Something else: Marc said that no meat is served here. Why is that? Because they consider it violent?"
"Not exactly. It's that it takes something like twenty pounds of grain to make one pound of meat, when you run it through the animal first. So it's inefficient. If things get tight, and people get hungry, our gardens will go twenty times as far if we cut out the middleman, as it were."
"I guess that makes sense. But don't you have animals here?"
"Oh, sure, lots of them. We believe in biodiversity. But not for meat."
"Suppose an animal dies coincidentally? Would that be eaten?"
Faience made a face. "Would you want to eat your pet dog? We have pet llamas. But I guess they would be eaten, yes, if not diseased."
They came to the bottom of the hill, where there was a stream.
"This is the hydraulic ram," Faience said, indicating a round tank sitting on top of the pipe. The knocking sound was loud.
"Where's the motor?"
"This is the motor. It's like this: Water comes down this pipe in the stream. The valve in the end of it lets out some water, but that motion makes the valve slam shut. That's why it knocks. Then the valve opens again, and lets a bit more water out, until it slams shut again."
"But that's not a motor!"
"Yes it is, in its fashion. See this connecting pipe? There's a valve inside that. When the first valve knocks closed, the water moving inside comes to a sudden stop, and the pressure jumps. That forces some water up through the inside valve. The air tank is to ease the shock, so it doesn't pound itself apart. That water keeps nudging into the pipe and on up the hill. It's slow but sure, and it uses no external energy, and it pumps all the water we need."
"With no fuel?" Bry asked, surprised. "Free pumping?"
"Free pumping," she agreed. "That's sort of our philosophy: renewable energy, environmentally friendly, durable, cheap. All our machines are like that, except maybe the computers. But they help too, really, because with things like E-mail and the Internet folks don't have to waste so much energy commuting to work."
Bry was impressed. "The water gets moving and knocks at the valve, like a hammer, and keeps driving a bit more water up the pipe. But doesn't it lose as much water as it pumps?"
"More. But this is a river. Plenty of water here. But not enough up the hill where we are. We have all we need. The water really pumps itself up to us. The hydraulic ram should last indefinitely, with no maintenance, unless a valve should get jammed."
"I never knew there was such a thing. I like it."
"They say that thirty years ago there was a problem translating the term from a Russian paper. It came out 'water sheep.' "
Bry laughed. "So maybe I was half-right. It is an animal."
They made their way back up the hill, following the pipe. Then Faience paused. "I just realized: I have a date to go in tomorrow with Tourette."
"Who?"
"I need to explain about her. She's really nice. But there are two things. Can I tell you something in private?"
"You mean a secret?"
"Not exactly. It's something you need to know, but not to bruit about, as it were."
"To use discretion."
"Yes. I don't want to embarrass anyone."
"Sure, yes. I'll be discreet."
"Tourette's from the Bones community."
"The what?"
"Our nickname for it. It's a neighboring community we don't like, settled by survivalists. Gun nuts. Militia men. Every one of them is armed and dangerous. We wish they would go away, because—"
"Because you're pacifists. And vegetarians. What a combination!"
"Yes. They don't much like us, and we don't much like them. But neither group is moving; we both have too much invested in our land and development. We don't speak to each other. If we see one of them on the road, we go right on by in silence. They do the same."
"You snub each other."
"Yes. And Tourette's one of them. So I don't speak of our acquaintance."
Bry considered that. "I don't want to give offense, but is that honest? You said you like straight speaking."
She looked pained. "I do. But this is difficult. She's nice. And there aren't a whole lot of girls my age around here. Actually she's sixteen, two years older, but that's close enough."
Bry spoke carefully. "Sometimes there is a conflict between truth and decency. My sister Flo is really fat, but we don't go up and call her fatso. So maybe if a person has a friend that others might not approve of, for no good reason, it's better just to keep her mouth shut."
"Yes!"
"So I guess I can keep my mouth shut. But how did you get together with her, if the two communities don't associate?"
"I was out looking for berries, alone, and there she was. We sort of struck it up. She's lonely too. Her folks are really overprotective. So we're secret friends."
"But if you go into town together—"
"Mom drives. She understands. So Mom shops for supplies, and we see a movie. It's nice. I sort of watch out for Tourette."
"But if she's older than you, and armed—"
"That's the other thing. Tourette's not her real name. It's just what I call her. She—when we met, she was shy, almost afraid of me. I couldn't think why. I mean, she carried a gun and a dagger, and I was unarmed, so it couldn't have been any thought that I could hurt her. Then she started twitching, sort of, and I was scared. I asked whether anything was wrong, and she said Tourette. I thought it was her name, so that's what I called her. Later I learned it wasn't, and I was really embarrassed, but she said it was okay, she knew I didn't mean anything by it. So that's her name, to me."
"I don't understand. Why did she give you a wrong name? And why did she twitch?"
"It's a disease, or at least an affliction. Tourette's syndrome, named after the doctor who described it. Mostly boys get it; only about 20 percent are girls. They vary. Some just twitch, and they can suppress it for a while, if they try, but eventually it will happen. Others are worse, and they grunt or even say things, like cusswords or obscenities, and they can't help it. Tourette—I mean my friend—is sort of in between. It comes and goes, and she can hold it down some, but sometimes it really gets away from her and she'll grunt and hiss something awful. It passes in a moment, and she's okay, as if nothing happened. But she doesn't like to do it in public."
"I can appreciate why. Maybe it's like epilepsy."
"Maybe. I don't think anybody really knows. What matters is that it's not her fault, and it's not contagious, and it has nothing to do with how else she looks and acts. So if she twitches, just ignore it. Give her a break."
"You're afraid I don't understand?"
"Yeah," she agreed, embarrassed.
"I do understand. But I'm not free to tell you why. That's another confidence I keep. But maybe you'll find out. Then you'll know how well I understand."
"Okay," she said, looking relieved. "So if you come over to my house tomorrow morning, early, we'll go in. We use the community van; there's room in there for any number of teens, sitting on the floor. Only, if your sister and her friend—"
"They are discreet. May I tell them?"
"You'd better. But I'd really rather it didn't go farther."
"It won't. We'll be there, and we won't embarrass her."
"She's really a very nice person, and smart as anything. She's read just about every book there is, and knows so much. I'm sure you'll like her. Apart from that one thing."
He saw that she feared he and Lin would treat her friend with that polite disdain reserved for those one could not blame but really did not want to have close by. So it was time to change the subject.
Bry looked around, noticing something he had missed when running through this field before. There were strange plants growing taller than his head. "What is growing here?"
"That's hemp."
"Hemp? But isn't that illegal?"
"The stupid law is changing. Anyway, it's not for drugs. Quakers don't use things like that; in fact they don't much like alcohol or cigarettes either. A true Quaker is almost without vices." She grimaced. "It must get dull. Hemp's great for fibers; you can make rope or cloth or paper from it, and it grows just about anywhere. It produces three to eight tons of fibrous dry stalk per acre per year, depending on climate and variety, compared to two or three tons of fiber for southern pine, and it's easier to process. So it represents a way to save all the trees that get pulped for books and newspapers. Sure, some species are used for narcotics, but that's not what we're after." She paused. "But maybe it's best not to talk about it elsewhere. We grow a lot of stuff that some folk wouldn't understand about. Rare medicinal herbs, exotic food plants, biomass for alternate fuel, and so on."
"Agreed."
"We're experimenting with kenaf, too. That may be even better than hemp, because it's not illegal, if we can find a frost-resistant strain."
"What's that again?"
"Kenaf." She accented the second syllable. "It's a variety of the hibiscus, a cousin of cotton and okra, and it has a similar flower. It grows over twelve feet tall and yields five to ten tons of fiber per acre per year that's relatively easy to process for paper. This could revolutionize the pulp industry. Think of it: great fields of pretty flowers that provide all the paper the world needs, more cheaply than wood. Beauty and economy together. So that trees will be for the birds again."
She was really animated, and it was contagious. Bry liked the new directions this community was exploring. It wasn't retreating from the world so much as trying to help save the world from its own folly. This was exactly the kind of thing he would like to be a part of.
They reached the shop. "I'd better get back to work on the baskets," Faience said. "But at least I've shown you something, and I don't mean my jeans. You'll get to know all the parts of Dreams soon enough, I'm sure."
"Maybe it's time for me to learn basket making," Bry said. "Will you teach me?"
"Sure!"
So they settled down, and he learned how to make a basket from hemp fiber and reeds. It was both more challenging and more fun than he would have thought.
That evening he got Lin aside and explained. "I thought maybe, if something happens, you could, you know, if you want to," he concluded a bit lamely. "So she knows it's okay."
Lin nodded. "Maybe. I'll tell Jack."
In the morning the three of them went to Faience's house. They met her mother Fay, and piled into the back of the van with Faience.
"But where is Tourette?" Bry asked.
"We'll pick her up along the way," Faience explained. "I guess her folks know what's she doing, but she keeps it pretty quiet. I think maybe they'd tell her no, if she asked, so she doesn't ask and her mom doesn't say anything."
The van got moving. Before long it stopped, and Faience threw open the side door and jumped down. Bry saw a rather pretty young woman in blue jeans and heavy shirt standing beside the road. "We have three friends along this time," she said. "It's okay; they're visitors. They want to see the movie too."
Hesitantly, the girl stepped into the van and sat down beside Faience. She wore a sheath at her hip, with a solid knife. "This is Tourette," Faience said. "And this is Bry, and his sister Lin, and her friend Jack."
The van moved out. "Hi," Bry said.
The girl looked at him somewhat in the manner of a frightened deer. She was clearly not at all at ease. Her hair was parted in the center, passing down to frame her face before falling across her shoulders. It gave her an elfin look. Then she began to twitch, and then to grunt.
They looked away, trying to defuse the awkwardness. In a moment the girl settled down. But she looked as if she wanted to scramble out of there.
"It's okay," Faience said. But clearly it wasn't.
Lin glanced at Jack, then at Bry. Then she spoke. "Tourette, I want to show you something." She lifted her left hand, which was clutching her purse. She set the purse down. She opened her hand, so that all six fingers showed clearly.
Tourette stared. Then she reached out. "May I?"
"Yes."
Tourette took Lin's hand and touched every finger, verifying that all were real. Then she nodded. "I have read of it, but never expected to see it. Most such cases get corrected surgically at birth. I'm glad that wasn't the case with you. It's a good hand."
"Good enough for me," Lin agreed. "I just don't like a hassle, so I mostly hide it."
"You said you understood," Faience breathed, looking at Bry. "Now so do I."
"And Jack has a club foot," Lin said. "We don't make fun of anybody, in our family. We know how it is."
Tourette smiled, visibly relaxing. "Yes. Thank you."
After that they talked of other things, feeling increasingly at ease with each other. Bry discovered he rather liked Tourette; she had a very quick mind, and she smiled often, now that she was at ease. She soon elicited descriptions from Bry and Lin of their travels.
"It must be wonderful to be in such far places," she said.
"It really wasn't all that much," Bry demurred. But her ready interest flattered him. At the same time, he saw how well read she was, because she knew details about the places he had been that he would have thought only a traveler would have picked up on.
When they reached town, the five of them walked together to the theater, and found grouped seats. Lin and Jack sat beside each other, of course, then Faience, Tourette, and Bry.
After a time, in the darkness, Bry touched Tourette's right hand. "May I?" he whispered.
She turned her hand over, and he took it, interleaving their fingers. After that, when something interesting or meaningful happened in the movie, he squeezed her hand, gently, and she squeezed back. It had become a date.
When they returned to the van, Bry sat beside Tourette. "Why don't you hold her hand again?" Faience asked mischievously.
Tourette blushed, and Bry felt his own face heating. They had thought that business had been unobserved. But he lifted his hand, and Tourette lifted hers, and they clasped hands. Thus it was official: they had dated.
"I'm sorry," Faience said. "I thought I was joking. It wasn't funny."
"These things happen," Lin said, snuggling closer to Jack. "Your turn will come."
Again, they talked about many things, compatibly. Tourette suffered a minor series of twitches, but Bry held firmly on to her hand, and they passed. He continued to bask in the glow of her interest in all the things he had done. It was as if he were far more important than usual. He had always regarded himself as somewhat of a nonentity, and it was a real pleasure to be regarded as otherwise by this smart and pretty girl.
The van slowed, and stopped. It was time for Tourette to leave. Bry made as if to get out with her, but she shook her head. "They would not understand."
"Maybe—next week?"
"I hope so." Then she turned and walked into the forest. He watched her go, feeling strange emotions.
"So how do her jeans look?" Faience inquired.
"Just great," Bry answered.
"Their whole compound is wired and guarded like the Maginot Line," Faience remarked. "But she knows a safe route through. That's how she gets out without passing the guard station. But she has to go alone."
"You really like her?" Lin asked Bry.
"I guess I do. There's something about her."
"She's got a pretty potent figure under that clothing," Jack remarked. "If she ever dressed to show it off, she'd be something."
"Oh, you were noticing?" Lin asked him.
"Don't be jealous, wench. You've got something she doesn't."
"A sixth finger," she agreed, and they laughed.
"Maybe that's it," Bry said. "Maybe I've been looking for someone with a sixth finger, or something."
"Or something," Lin agreed, nodding. "She's got plenty."
"I told you she was a nice girl," Faience said triumphantly. "You two really hit it off, once she knew you were for real."
Lin agreed. "I think she's the one for you, Bry."
He realized that she might be right. What a day it had been!
That evening there was a community gathering, where the family was introduced. There were too many people to assimilate all at once, but all were friendly. Several complimented Flo on her cooking; she had, in her fashion, dug in and made something good happen. It was a nice way to get acquainted. But Bry was distracted by his memories of the day, and thoughts of Tourette. Yes, she had an awkward syndrome, but it was indeed part of her appeal for him. He knew how precious the roses could be that others did not appreciate. And Jack was right: she was a comely girl. Her face and figure were nice, and so was her nature. Faience was right too: she was as bright a girl as he could remember encountering. He liked that In fact he liked all of her.
Sunday morning they all dressed up and went to Meeting. It wasn't required, but they wanted to understand this community, because it wasn't just a question of finding employment. They were not being paid for their work in money, just in kind: their residence was free. If they decided to join, and the community of Dreams wanted them, they would continue to work without pay. Membership was the only reward. They needed to know whether they could fit into this religious community, and whether they wanted to.
Quaker Meeting was not exactly like a regular church service. There was no minister, and there were no songs or readings. The people filed in quietly and took the pews and seats. They sat in silence.
After a while, one of the men of the community stood. "We live in perilous times," he said. "The world is becoming more difficult. It is good to find refuge in the field and forest. I pray to the divine spirit that is within all of us that our effort will be successful. We hope to achieve an island of peace that will endure though troubles come elsewhere. I see it being realized, but I don't know whether it is enough. May amity and fellowship prevail throughout." He sat down again.
Later another person stood, and spoke of the beauty of the day and the countryside, and the joy of the experience of harmony with nature. Another person did not stand, but leaned forward and spoke a prayer for peace in all the world.
Bry wasn't sure what to make of it. This was a religious service? It seemed like a meditation session, with occasional comments thrown in. Yet he rather liked the atmosphere. There was a certain quiet good humor throughout. These people were quite serious, without taking themselves too seriously.
In due course the meeting ended, and people chatted with each other. Jes discovered an old friend of hers named Crockson. "I must repay that loan!" she exclaimed.
"What loan?" the man asked blankly.
"Don't pretend you don't remember! It enabled me to travel on until I found my husband."
Bry moved on, not much interested, because he didn't know Crockson. Faience came up. "What did you think of it?" she asked Bry.
"It's different, but nice," he said.
"Like Tourette?"
He laughed. "Maybe so."
They adjourned to a nice lunch of fresh vegetables that tasted better than anything Bry had eaten recently. "We do our own gardening," Faience explained. "We can use another gardener, if you're interested."
Offhand, Bry could not think of anything he would be much less interested in. But his recent experiences with the hydraulic ram, basket weaving, and Tourette had shaken his certainties. Maybe there would be more surprises. "Okay."
In the evening there was a song session. The harmonies were not perfect, but were enthusiastic, and Bry found himself joining in as he learned the songs. One especially struck him: "The Garden Song." "Inch by inch, and row by row, Going to make this garden grow." There was a wholesome optimism that was contagious. "Pulling weeds, picking stones, We are made of dreams and bones." The image caught hold of him. Dreams and bones—that was indeed what this community was all about. It was personal for Bry, because this community was called Dreams, while the nickname for the other community, where Tourette lived, was Bones. Bry and Tourette, dreams and bones. He had nice dreams, she had nice bones. But it was more than that. Much more.
The next day, Monday, Bry started the day with Ned and Bill, who were trying to design a refinement for the Solar Stirling engine. Bry realized that if he wanted to be of any real use with the computer, he would have to learn to understand the principle of the Stirling engine. But its mechanism was weird; it had a piston, but it wasn't like a gasoline motor. For one thing, he had heard it was a free piston, connected directly to nothing. How could that accomplish anything?
"Maybe I can help," Faience said. "I have a general notion, because Dad has explained it to me about half a zillion times. I can tell you what I know while we work on the garden."
He had forgotten: he had agreed to go to the garden with her. "Okay."
It turned out that they had a number of gardens, ranging from old-fashioned outdoor dirt to hydroponic. They had to pull some encroaching weeds from a tomato patch without damaging the garden plants. This was reasonably tedious work, which was ideal. While they worked, Faience explained the Solar Stirling engine as she understood it.
"First, you have to understand that it's an external combustion engine," she said. "It can run on anything, but we're using the sun as much as we can. We have huge reflectors set up to focus the sunlight on the engine, making it very hot."
"I didn't see those."
"They're portable, and made of shiny cloth or foil stretched on frameworks; no point in setting them up until we get the kinks out of the engine. We can also use a series of Fresnel lenses—named for a French physicist—which consist of very thin optic lenses of short focal length layered in concentric rings. We can get square Fresnel lens panels commercially, and they can generate a lot of heat—up to 3,000 degrees Fahrenheit. They're less sturdy, but resistant to minor pocks or scratching, and much more efficient, and that's important here where we can't be sure of intense sunlight."
She obviously had more than a "general" notion. She was comfortable with terms he had never heard of. "Okay, I understand how a lot of heat can translate into power. A gasoline engine does that. But there the explosions push the pistons, and the pistons push the wheels, ultimately, making the car move. Your Stirling engine has just a loose piston that stays inside. I don't know what makes it move, and how it can do any work when it does move."
"Those are easy questions to answer," she said. "The heat focuses on a chamber and heats the air inside. Actually it's not air, it's helium, what we call the working fluid, but you can think of it as air if you want to."
"Isn't helium a gas, rather than a fluid?"
She smiled. "Sure it is. But under high pressure at high heat, it acts just about like a fluid, so that's the technical term. It heats and expands, and pushes the piston out. Then the heat is cut off, and it cools and contracts, and the piston comes back in. So that's what makes it move. Of course the actual cycle is way more sophisticated, with a regenerator, a piston, which is actually connected to the alternator, not exactly 'free' in the way you thought—it's what we call a 'kinematic mechanism'—and a displacer, and the piston and the displacer take turns moving as the helium changes volume and moves about. The displacer is to make sure it doesn't lock up at the extremes, I think. I could draw you a diagram in the dirt—"
"No, I get the message: it gets hot and pushes the piston out, then it gets cool and pulls the piston back in. But since the piston isn't connected to anything solid—"
"How does it do any work," she finished for him. "You'll kick yourself for this one. You know how they generate electricity from big dams or whatever?"
"They pass iron wiring through magnetic fields. The motion generates electric current that—" He paused, seeing it. "Electricity! The piston generates current. It doesn't need to go outside the engine; all it needs to do is move."
"Right. So it moves a tenth of an inch, sixty cycles a second. The helium varies only a few degrees in temperature, at about 670 degrees Celsius, but it does the job. And we have power. Or will, once it is properly set up."
"What's the matter with it? Don't they deliver these things ready to operate?"
"They do, but it seems that the tolerances are extremely close, and it has to be adjusted just right. That's what Dad's been working on. He's checking the computer to get the settings exactly right for the job we have, and, well, he says the devil is in the details."
"That's what Ned says, too. They'll work it out."
"They'd better. We're on commercial power now, but when the crash comes, we'll have to be on our own power."
"The crash?"
"You know, when society collapses and civilization ends. That's why were out here. So we won't be taken down with it, and humanity won't expire."
Bry was amazed. "Do you really think that's going to happen?"
"Oh, sure. We just don't know when. Isn't that why you folk are out here? To save your skins?"
"No, just to find decent work and living conditions. We don't much like it in the big city. But I guess you're right: We know that things can't go on as they are. Something's going to give, and maybe pretty soon."
"Yes. So it's best to be well away from the bomb before it explodes. And not to be dependent on the rest of the world for anything, so we don't get dragged down with it."
"Isn't that a rather selfish philosophy?"
She nodded, unsmiling. "I guess it is. But I don't see too many others trying to protect themselves either. They find it easier just to ignore the handwriting on the wall."
"How about the survivalists?"
"Bones. Yes, I guess they are doing it too. But we don't like their guns. In fact, they make us pretty damn nervous."
"Why? Aren't they just trying to be ready to protect themselves?"
"From what? From us? More likely they figure to come in and take what we've got."
Bry was silent, pondering that. It did seem like sheep living next to the den of wolves. "But Tourette—she's not like that."
"Yes she is. Ask her."
"But then why are you friends with her?"
"The crunch hasn't come yet. So there's no problem. But when it happens, we won't be friends any more. We both know that."
"I can't believe that."
"Well, you're half in love with her."
"I am not! We've only dated once."
She shook her head. "I'm jealous, I admit it. Not of you personally. I knew you weren't for me. I mean of your relationship. You saw her, and she saw you, and it was like two magnets getting charged. And not just because you're handsome and she's pretty, though I guess that doesn't hurt. I wish I could meet someone and have that happen. I'm a little annoyed I didn't see it coming, but of course I was afraid you'd be turned off by her syndrome. You said you understood, but I didn't really believe that. Tourette was almost afraid of you, despite being fascinated. Then when your sister showed her hand—you've been waiting all your life for someone like Lin, only who's not your sister, and there she was. And Tourette—she's never had a boyfriend. She saw that hand, and she knew. You two were destined for each other." She looked at him challengingly. "Now tell me it's not so."
Bry considered. Could he be in love with Tourette, after just one day with her? And she with him? "I don't think love happens like that. Fascination, maybe, but not love. Sure I like her. But—"
"What's the big distinction between fascination and love, except that the one happens fast and the other slow? You two are in mutual orbit, spiraling in together. Maybe if you never see each other again, you'll get over it. But next week—do you even want me along?"
Bry reconsidered. "I think maybe you'd better be along. If she feels the way I do, we're in free fall. There's no telling what might happen."
"Would it be wrong?"
"Yes! We're not ready for that. My family may not even stay here, and anyway, if I'm a Dream and she's a Bone, how can it be?"
"Okay, I'll be there. But I think you'd better have that Dreams and Bones discussion with her right away."
"I'd better," he agreed, with uncomfortably mixed feelings.
The week passed, and with every day it looked more as if the family was fitting in, and would stay. Flo liked the big kitchen, and the community members liked her cooking. Dirk was an all purpose handyman, doing good work. Sam was finding plenty of outdoor hard work to do, the kind he liked, on a crew that Ittai organized, and it was evident that they were making a difference. Ned and Bill were working well together, each appreciating the intellect of the other. Snow and Wildflower and Lin were mixing with the women, doing everything from baskets to painting walls, compatibly. The children loved everything about the community. Faience showed Bry around the rest of the garden area, including the heated greenhouse, which could be kept at over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit if required. It seemed that some of their rare medicinal herbs liked that kind of environment. Only Jes seemed a bit out of sorts, but that might be because she was still adjusting to new motherhood.
But there was no avoiding the fact that the community of Dreams did not like the community of Bones, just as Faience had said. The weekly trips into town to see the movie were the only contact between any members of the two, and that was quiet, perhaps unknown to any but the mothers of the two girls. And to Jack, Lin, and Bry, who were not talking about it. There just might be hell to pay if the news got out.
Saturday came. Jack and Lin did not go; they had other things to do, being well wrapped up in community activities. So it was just Bry and Faience—and Tourette.
This time Tourette wore a skirt and blouse. She was indeed a nice figure of a woman. She had done something with her hair, and looked lovely. This time she wore no visible weapon.
Faience jumped down. "I'll ride in front, this time," she said, and climbed into the front seat. That left Bry and Tourette together alone in back. There was a screen separating the front seats from the rear of the van, so they had reasonable privacy.
They closed the door and settled down, leaning against opposite sides, their knees up. Tourette's skirt fell away below, so that her thighs showed. Bry tried not to look, but failed. Actually the van was dark enough inside so that it was mostly shadow down there, but his imagination ran rampant.
Her very presence made his pulse accelerate. He was suddenly shy. "You're beautiful."
"Thank you."
"I think—I think we have to talk," Bry said.
"Before we do, would you kiss me?"
"If I do that, we may never talk."
"That's okay with me."
Bry came to a pained realization. "You think I'm going to—to break it off?"
"I would, in your place."
"You think—the syndrome? That's not—"
"Please. Before we get into it. Then I will listen, and there will be no trouble. I promise." She looked at him, beseechingly.
He moved across, kneeled, and kissed her. The van lurched at that moment, and he caught only half her mouth before he fell over. But she joined him on the floor, laughing. Lying there, they kissed again, hard and long.
Then, embraced, they remained there. Her body against his was wonderful. He felt the motion of her breast when she breathed. "Faience says it's love," he murmured.
"She may be right."
They kissed again. Then she spoke. "I'm not apt at this. I have no experience in romance. But the way I feel—maybe it's better to be clumsy than silent." She took his hand and set it on her thigh where the skirt rode up. "Anything you want, Bry. Please."
"Oh, Tourette, I want everything. I think you're the greatest girl. But—"
"I know. Two different worlds."
"We're—we're joining the pacifists. Do your folk really go armed all the time?"
"Yes. And we are trained to use our weapons."
"But you aren't—"
"Yes I am. Here." She guided his hand up under her left arm. There, next to her breast, was a flat holster. "Knife. In this outfit, a gun's too hard to conceal."
"Why did you dress this way, then?"
"For you. Because I wanted to look nice for you. And to make it possible for you to do anything you might want to do with me. But I still had to be armed."
"For self-defense," he said. "Because it's not safe for a girl alone."
"You understand?"
"My eldest sister got raped. And my brother's wife, too. And—well, Lin needs protection. My sister Jes is always armed, even now with her baby."
"But you can't be that way, in Dreams."
"But I don't mind if you are. I mean, each person makes his own decision, doesn't he?"
"No. At Bones, you train in martial art. You go armed. Always. Even when sleeping."
"So if I visited, I'd have to have a gun, or something?"
"Yes." She moved his hand across her blouse, so that it touched her warm breast. "Anything you want, Bry. But I am what I am."
"You mean you think I'll dump you, but you'll give me everything anyway?"
"Yes. Now, while I can. I think I love you."
"I think I love you, too. But I know these things take time. Sometimes it doesn't work out. My brother's first wife was beautiful, but—it just takes time. Maybe I should meet your father, or something."
"No. He would see to it that I never saw you again."
"Oh, Tourette, I couldn't bear that!"
"He may find out anyway. He has ways of knowing. I love him, but he's a hard man. I don't mean he's bad; he's tough but fair. Mom can stand up to him, but I can't. So this may be our only chance. I hope not, but I don't want to gamble."
"You want—to have sex—because you may never see me again?"
"Please. I might twitch a bit, but that will pass. As I said, I dressed to make it possible."
She had actually planned for this! Yet he balked. How much of this was love, and how much was desperation, if she thought she would never again be with a man? Any man? "I can't do that. I must see you again."
"You don't know. Dad's away now, but when he returns in a few days, he'll know. Then I won't go to town any more."
"But don't you have any choice?"
"Not in such a case. We—we aren't a democracy, Bry. My father is the headman. What he says, goes. I will have the chance to embarrass him only once."
"If you don't come out," Bry said with sudden resolve, "I will go in to find you."
"Oh, Bry, don't do that! You have no idea! Please, just love me and let me go, if that's how it has to be."
"I can love you. I can't let you go. Not while I know you love me."
"I do, Bry." Then she kissed him with such passion that there was no point in further dialogue.
But before they had gotten beyond hand on breast and thigh, and mouth on mouth, the van slowed. "We're coming into town," Faience called back.
"Damn!" Tourette muttered.
But Bry was half-relieved. He desired her, but caution told him that sex at this time could be disastrous. There had to be a way to make their association legitimate.
They got themselves back in order and got out when the van stopped. Faience joined them, and they went to the movie. In the dark theater, Bry put his arm around Tourette's shoulders, and she rested her head against him and touched his knee with hers. It was sheer bliss.
When they returned to the van, the front seat was full of supplies, so Faience had to rejoin them in the back. "Sorry," she said.
"It's okay," Bry said. "You introduced us."
"I can face away and stop up my ears."
They both laughed. "You're curious what happened on the trip down," Tourette said.
"Yeah," the girl admitted, abashed.
"Well, first we kissed like this." Tourette kneeled, hugged Bry's upper torso and pulled him in for a very solid kiss. Actually it had been the other way around, but it hardly mattered. He loved kissing her regardless. "Then he put his hand on my blouse, like this." She guided his open hand and mashed it into her breast.
"No, first I touched your thigh," Bry said, with mixed emotions: amazement, desire, and laughter. The more he discovered about Tourette, the better he liked her. Once her genie had been uncorked, she had poured out a whole lot of personality.
"Oh, that's right." She moved his hand down, and up under her skirt. "Or did I put my hand into your pants? I forget."
"Damn, I wish I had a boyfriend!" Faience exclaimed.
"We're teasing you," Bry said. "That's as far as it went."
"Oh. Still. It must be nice."
"It is nice," Tourette said. "I love him, just as you surmised, and I think he's halfway hot for me."
"Three-quarters of the way," Bry said, kissing her again. "Going on four-fifths." Then she sat on his lap and they embraced and kissed some more, just to make Faience jealous, they said.
But after a bit they disengaged, because both were aware that if they didn't ease off, they would soon get into full sex in Faience's presence, and that was beyond what they could handle.
The rest of the ride back was routine. For Bry, for now, that was enough. But he worried about the future.
"I love you," Tourette repeated, kissing him one last time before she disappeared into the forest.
"I never saw her so hot and happy, before," Faience said. "And desperate. It's as if she thinks the end of the world is coming."
"She does." He hesitated. "Faience, if she doesn't come next week, will you show me exactly where the Bones layout is?"
"Are you thinking of doing something romantic and stupid?"
"If I have to. Her dad may not let her come."
"It's just down the road, that way. They've got a bunker and guardhouse. You have to go in the front way, because the rest is surrounded by mines and barbed wire."
"Mines?"
"That's what Tourette said, once. They've got a siege mentality. Automatic guns that track you, that sort of thing. They're not nice people, Bry."
"Except for Tourette."
"Except for Tourette," she agreed. "Did she show you her knife?"
"Right by her breast."
"Yeah." She looked momentarily thoughtful. "I wonder if I should wear a knife there? When I'm off-campus, I mean."
"First get a boyfriend to show it to, or to let him feel for."
She laughed. "Yeah."
During the week, between projects, he talked with Jes. "I have a problem, maybe. Something you should maybe talk me out of."
She was nursing her baby. Her breasts had grown enormously with pregnancy and childbirth. She caught him looking. "Yes, I hope they stay this way, after. I'm tired of being mistaken for a man."
"You mean the pacifism is getting to you? You want to be soft like a woman?"
"When I want to be. But I'm no pacifist. I think that part of Dreams philosophy is unrealistic. Come the crash, how will they stop the crazies from overrunning them for their food and supplies?"
"I don't know. How's Ittai feel about it?"
"He loves it here, but he doubts, too. I think our family is split about evenly between believers and doubters. That may be a problem."
"Well, maybe my problem relates. I have to tell you something private."
She nodded. "Tell."
"I've been seeing a Bones girl."
Her eyebrows elevated in mock shock. "Consorting with the enemy?"
"I think I love her."
"Think?"
"Actually, I'm pretty sure I love her. And she loves me. And her dad maybe won't let her out any more. Which mean's I'll maybe have to do something stupid."
"Like going over there and demanding to see her?"
"Yeah."
"And you could use a backstop."
"Yeah."
"Why do you think I'd be more help than, say, Sam?"
"They all go armed, all the time. Even the women and children. You might relate better."
She laughed. "I might indeed. Very well, little brother; I'll go with you. I'm starting to go stir crazy here anyway."
"Thanks," he said, relieved. "Maybe it won't be necessary."
But Saturday morning, Tourette was not there. "Uh-oh," Faience said. "She was right. 'Cause I know she'd come here if she could."
"I guess I'll have to beg off the movies, this time," he said. "You go on in alone. I've got business here."
"And miss the show? I'll go with you."
"Thee will not," her mother said sternly. "I can't stop the visitors from being suicidal, but thee is mine."
"It's no democracy here, either," Faience grumbled. But she joined Fay in the van. "But if thee gets thyself stupidly killed, Bry, I'll never speak to thee again."
He had to laugh, and not just because of her humor. Her mother had used the plain talk, and that had triggered Faience's switch to it. But he was distinctly nervous. He knew he was going to make what could be a bad scene.
He went back to Jes, who, evidently anticipating this, had just finished nursing her baby and had turned her over to Snow. She was wearing a jacket and skirt, and carried a bow and arrows. "If they want to see Diana the Huntress, so they shall," she said.
They drove their own van to the Bones entry. It was indeed closed, with a guard who came alert as they parked and came forward. He carried a rifle at port arms. "What's your business?" he demanded.
"I'm Bry, and this is my sister Jes," Bry said. "We're from the Dreams community, trial new members."
"They don't carry weapons."
"Maybe I'll flunk my trial," Jes said.
"We don't have anything to do with them."
"Well, I do," Bry said. "I have come to see the chief's daughter."
"Petition denied. Go back where you came from."
"I call her Tourette."
The man jumped, his rifle swinging around. But Jes was faster. Her knife was in her hand, the tip of the blade pointing at his face. "At ease, soldier," she said.
He hesitated, so she did her trick with the knife, flipping it and catching it an inch from his nose.
The guard shrugged, then looked at Bry. "Describe her."
"Age sixteen. Shoulder-length brown hair. Brown eyes. About yea tall." He held his hand at the level of the top of her head. "Very nice figure. Very nice person."
"What's your business with her?"
"I love her."
The guard whistled. "You're in trouble."
"Just take me to her."
The guard lifted a walkie-talkie. "Two from Dreams being admitted on temporary passes to see the chief's daughter."
The gate cranked open. Another guard appeared "This way," he said curtly.
He brought them to a Jeep, and drove them along a winding drive to a massive building that had the aspect of a fortress. A device on its roof moved to track them, just as Faience had said.
They parked near an armored door. "I must search you before you enter," the guard said.
"Like hell," Jes snapped.
"Electronic."
She shrugged. "Okay. But where I go, I go armed."
"Understood. This way."
They passed through a frame similar to that of an airline inspection station. There was no buzzer, but Bry saw the guard look at a computer screen. Then he spoke into a mike. "Man, unarmed. Woman, with bow, ten arrows, three knives, and a club."
"Do they come in truce?" a woman's voice asked from a speaker.
"Yes," Bry said. Jes hesitated, then nodded. Evidently that was good enough, because the metal door slid open.
"You will be met inside," the guard said.
They entered. A woman in a clerical uniform rose from a desk just inside. She wore a gun, and looked vaguely familiar. "What is your business here?"
"You already know it," Jes said tersely.
The woman smiled. "So you understand the situation."
"No."
"The boy made illicit contact with one of our members. Further contact is denied."
"Let her tell me that," Bry said.
The woman lifted one hand to make a small beckoning signal. A door opened behind her, and Tourette emerged. She was in a black uniform: military cap, close jacket, trousers, boots. And a wide belt supporting a holster with a gun at her right hip, and a sheath with a knife at the left hip.
"So you came," she said to Bry.
"I love thee."
She glanced at him, startled, and he realized that he had used the plain talk. Fay to Faience to him: it seemed to be contagious. But he realized that it was also because he now identified with Dreams, and did want to be a part of it. Well, so be it.
After a strained pause, Tourette spoke. "Please leave."
"Thee knows I can't."
"Bry, I told you. It can't be. Please."
"Tell me thee doesn't love me."
"I—" Then her face crumbled. "Mom—"
Mom? But there was indeed a family resemblance. That was why the woman had looked vaguely familiar.
The woman shook her head. "My daughter does love you, Bry. But she may not associate with you at this time." She lifted a hand, forestalling Bry's objection. "It is not just her father's disapproval. Were you to qualify to join this community, it would be possible. But there is illness, and we do not wish to spread it to you. Separation is a kindness at this point."
"Illness?" Jes asked.
"It seems to be the flu, a deadly form. We fear that secondary infections will be resistant to treatment. My husband caught it in Africa, but it did not manifest until he arrived here. Otherwise he would not have returned. The least we can do is confine it."
Bry exchanged a glance with Jes, knowing she was as surprised as he was. "Maybe—maybe we could help. I mean, the Dreams community. They have herbal medicines—"
"I doubt it. Now please go. You may be at risk here."
Bry looked at Tourette, and saw tears streaming down her face. Surely what they said was true. The sensible course was to leave immediately.
But he wasn't sensible. "Come with me," he said to Tourette. She didn't move. "I've been exposed." Then she started to twitch. She must have been controlling it, but she was under such tension that it was getting away from her. Her shoulders jerked and her head tossed wildly.
Something buzzed in his mind. He stepped across, so quickly she did not react, and took her in his arms. Her body relaxed. He kissed her, steadying her face with his own. She returned the kiss, avidly. He tasted the salt of her tears.
He lifted his head and looked around. The woman was standing with her hand on her pistol, and Jes was standing with a knife drawn. Threat and counter-threat.
"Now I have been exposed too," Bry said.
"You have done a foolish thing," the woman said, and Jes nodded agreement.
"Whatever Tourette suffers, I want to suffer too. If you won't let me in, let her out. Maybe she doesn't have it. Maybe she'll be safer in Dreams."
"They will not speak to an armed person," the woman said.
"They speak to me," Jes said.
The women studied her, appraisingly. "Will you join Dreams?"
"I don't know. As I see it, there are occasions when pacifism simply doesn't work. I would have to give up my weapons if I joined, and I'm not sure that's wise."
"You might be more comfortable here in Bones."
They called it Bones too? No, probably that was just a facetious acceptance of the term, leaving the real community anonymous. Just as was the case with Tourette.
Jes stared at her. "You are inviting me to make a trial visit here?"
"With your husband, of course. We have need of organizers of his caliber. We would also be interested in your closest brother, as we are a high-tech community."
Jes seemed intrigued. So was Bry. How could the woman know so much about their family? "What of his wife?"
"We are an equal opportunity employer. We do not discriminate on the basis of color or past condition of royalty."
"But you do on the basis of ideology," Bry said.
"And Dreams does not?"
"Touché," Jes said. "I will think about it. But our family is unified. We won't split between hostile groups. We'll all go to one, or to another. And there are those of us who would not come here."
"I know. You will have a difficult decision."
"What of us?" Bry asked. "Tourette and me?"
"You must stay, or she must go. If you stay, you risk the illness. If she goes, she risks spreading it."
"If she has it," he said. "If she doesn't, she can escape it."
"It is a serious gamble, either way. I take it upon myself to make that decision. She may go." Her mouth quirked. "With thee."
"Oh, Mom!" Tourette cried.
"It is a rational decision. May God forgive me if I am mistaken." She touched a button on her desk, and the door slid open. "Go quickly."
They went quickly. The guard was waiting outside. They got into the Jeep, and rode back to the front gate. Then on out to their van.
"She let me go," Tourette said in awe. "I never thought she would."
"She loves you," Jes said. "She wants to spare you the plague."
"Yes. But what if I have it already?"
"We must warn the Dreams."
Something bothered Bry. "When I kissed thee, and thy mother started to draw her pistol, and Jes warned her off with her knife—doesn't Bones have better protection than that?"
Tourette laughed. "Mom could have had the room flooded with nerve gas, knocking us all out in an instant. But she liked your sister's look. She got downright friendly after that."
"And she knew about us, about our family," Jes said. "Did you tell her?"
"No. I said nothing at all. But we have personnel who research in the computer data bases and on the Internet. They must have made files on you. Knowledge is the best defense. I didn't know they had it in mind to recruit you."
"Then why didn't they want me to see you?" Bry asked.
"I think Mom thought you were just using me. But when you kissed me in the middle of a twitch, she changed her mind. Maybe she saw that you had committed to Dreams, and to me too, because you addressed me with the plain talk. And she does like your sister." She snuggled against him. "But if I carry the plague out—"
"We'll warn them," Jes said as she pulled into the parking lot.
But Marc shrugged it off. "We have people going in and out all the time. We are constantly exposed. We'll handle it."
"But this is really bad," Tourette said. "A killer flu."
"We are equipped. If the malady is in Africa, with a several day lag time, it is elsewhere too. We'll be exposed to it from some other source, sooner or later."
"I'm not sure it's smart for Dreams to be isolated from Bones," Jes said. "We need to talk with the Dreams community elders."
"To what point? We have no common ground with them."
"Please," Tourette said. "I wish I could talk to the elders. There are things that need to be understood."
Marc looked at her. "As long as thee evinces thy lack of sympathy with our philosophy, by bearing weapons, there is no point. I think thee will encounter a similar attitude wherever thee inquires."
"But it wouldn't be honest for me to disarm myself," Tourette said. "I am as I am, and I don't care to hide it."
"Then perhaps thee should return to thy community."
They let it go. The elders might be pacifists, but that didn't mean they weren't tough-minded. They had their standards, and would not abridge them. "You can stay with us," Jes told Tourette. "With Bry."
"But the propriety—"
"We have seen it all. You do as you choose."
Tourette clutched Bry's hand. "This is so unexpected. I hardly know what to feel."
"Neither do I," he confessed. "Except for love."
That afternoon Bry spoke to Flo. "I brought Tourette home. I think she needs to meet the family."
Flo always knew what was serious. "Half an hour hence?"
"Okay."
They were all there. "Some of you already know Tourette," he said. "That's not her real name, but it will do. I love her, and want to be with her. But she's from Bones, and there's plague there. She's afraid she has been exposed."
"We know about illness," Ittai said. "We'll cross that bridge if it comes."
"And—she has Tourette's syndrome," Bry continued. "That's an involuntary twitching and grunting. It comes and goes. It's okay just to ignore it."
They nodded.
Then Tourette spoke. "I love Bry, but I'm a militant and I think he's a pacifist. He's using the plain talk now, anyway. I don't know if this can work."
"Join the throng," Snow said. "Several of our couples split along those lines. We can't decide whether to join Dreams. We may have to return to the big city."
"But that's where the trouble is," Tourette said. "We built Bones to escape all that."
"Which is exactly what Dreams is doing," Flo said. "Similar solutions to a similar problem—and the two communities don't speak to each other."
"And one set of leaders is as stiff-necked as the other," Ned said. "It is an irony."
"Isn't there any way to get them together?" Tourette asked. "I don't think either community can survive alone. Oh, they think they can, but can they really? I mean, if civilization collapses?"
"I think they can't," Jes said. "Dreams will be overrun by the first wave of teenage thugs looking for drugs. Bones may never run out of bullets, but what about fuel for its generators, and food? Stored supplies won't last forever, after the crunch comes."
"We plan to survive the bad times on supplies, then to emerge to re-colonize the country after it has cleared," Tourette said. "We have supplies for a decade. We have trucks that will run on natural gas."
"And if illness takes out half your personnel?"
"That makes me nervous," Tourette admitted.
That was all. The family had been introduced to Tourette, and now knew her place: with Bry. He was the last to find his opposite number.
They joined in the folk singing in the evening, and Bry introduced Tourette to anyone who was interested, but did not explain the name unless asked. She was accepted as an addition to the visiting family, though she did not conceal her origin. The weapons she wore made it clear enough.
"I think it's great," Faience said. "You went in there and got her out."
"Thee gives me more credit than is due," Bry said.
"Bry! Thee has joined us!" She hugged him.
"Well, not without my family," he said. "But I guess it's true, for me; my vote is to join. But I've got to be with Tourette, too."
"So are you changing sides?" Faience asked Tourette.
"No. I can't turn my back on my family, on my community, or on my nature. I will return to Bones soon. When the threat of plague is gone, if I don't have it already. I'm really only on temporary leave from there."
Faience shook her head. "I think it's great that you two are together. But you know, Romeo/Juliet romances don't work out so well in real life. There are some awful differences to work out."
"We know," Bry agreed.
They shared a chamber that night, and a bed. But now Tourette was diffident. "Anything you want," she said, tout there was some reservation.
"What is it?"
"I've never been away from home like this, before. I miss Mom, and Dad, and everything. And I don't know what's going to happen. I can't relax."
"Then let's just be together, until we're sure."
She turned to him. "Thanks, Bry." She kissed him. He was gratified simply to be with her.
In the night he felt her motion and heard her grunt. He found her hand, and squeezed it reassuringly, and she settled down. He wasn't sure she was even awake. He knew that he could touch her anywhere, and she wouldn't object, but her hand was enough.
As daylight came, he woke and gazed at her. Her hair was messed across her face, and she was snoring. He liked that too. She was a real girl.
Sunday morning the family prepared to go to Meeting. "We don't have to go," Bry said. "We're still trying to get the feel of Dreams, to know whether it's really for us."
"If you go, I'll go," Tourette said. "We have church services too."
"We just sit quietly, and anyone who is moved to gives a message. It's sort of nice."
Several people glanced at Tourette as they approached the meeting house. She was wearing one of Wildflower's dresses, but over it wore the belt with the pistol and knife in plain view. She was refusing to pretend to be anything other than what she was. Jes, also armed, came to join them, lending tacit moral support. They picked a pew and sat, Tourette flanked by Bry and Jes.
The first message was a prayer: "Lord, we thank Thee for Thy beneficence. Lead us down the path of righteousness and mercy. May we stand before Thee without affectation. May we remember that he who is noble needs not a weapon, needs no man to guard him; virtue defends him." The last sentence was a quote from one of the songs they had sung the evening before, but the reference seemed rather pointed to Bry.
There were other messages. Tourette seemed uneasy. Then, to Bry's astonishment, she stood and spoke.
"I am not of this community. I apologize for not knowing the proper forms of expression, and I regret that my presence here makes some of you uneasy. But there is something I must say. It is said that we are made of dreams and bones. You are of Dreams, and I am of Bones, and I think that it is a mistake to separate the two. I think that the two communities are not as far apart as they may think. Both seek to survive, when human civilization and culture collapse. We merely have different ways to achieve a similar objective. You are trying to build a self-sustaining community; so are we. You want peace. So do we. You want to see a better future. So do we. So we differ only in the means, not the ends. You believe in nonviolence. We believe that there are occasions when violence is necessary. We do not seek it, we don't desire it, but we prepare for it in the hope that preparedness will make it unnecessary. But even here, we do not necessarily differ from you beyond the possibility of compromise. There is a martial art known as Aikido. An Aikidoka will not attack; indeed, he has no means to attack. But if another person attacks him, he will quickly immobilize that person. He doesn't have to hurt the other, he merely makes it impossible for that person to hurt him. I think this is a form of violence some of you could accept. We would teach it to you, if you wished. It does seem better than standing helplessly by while others who are not pacifists come to kill your men, rape your women, steal your children, take your goods, burn your houses, and destroy your dreams."
She paused, and her body began to jerk. She grunted. "No!" she cried, and it seemed to be a protest to her incapacity, not a denial of her message. Bry didn't know what to do, so he followed his own advice: he did nothing, ignoring her seizure. No one else moved or spoke. What a scene to make in the midst of a worship service!
Bry sat frozen. Tourette had spoken well, amazingly well, surprising him in more than one respect. He knew that she was rehearsing, to a degree, a philosophy to which she had had a lifelong exposure. Still, he had not before appreciated how well she could express herself when she tried. His love for her swelled in his chest as if his heart were a furnace. Yet there was nothing he could do to help her in this situation. She had to finish in her own way.
Then the siege passed, and she resumed talking. She was blushing, but pursued her message doggedly. "I am, as you can see, not a normal person. This is part of what I am. But I am other things too. I am not a pacifist. I carry a gun and a knife, and I will use them to defend myself or some other person in need of defense. I will not conceal my nature; I will not pretend to be something I am not. That would be hypocrisy. All my people carry weapons, and are trained in them. None of us are hypocrites. We do not seek quarrels, we only stand ready to defend ourselves when this is necessary. We are satisfied with our philosophy, and do not intend to change it, or to ask anyone else to change theirs. We are not roughnecks; we are educated and civilized, as you are. But we are also realists, as we fear you are not. We are preparing for a future that may be ugly beyond belief, because the alternative is to risk suffering calamity beyond belief. Even now the first wave of it is coming; my father is dying of a plague we can't fight, and the rest of us may fall too. It is my hope, my prayer, my fervent wish that I have not brought this terror among you also. If I have, then how can my shame ever be abated?
"But that isn't all. I find that my life is incomplete. I have been protected—too much, perhaps. Now I have found love, outside my community, outside my philosophy. I never knew love before; maybe my inexperience makes me foolish. But it is the greatest passion I have experienced, a mountain when I have known only foothills. I would do anything to preserve and consummate that love. But I can't change what I am, and do not seek to change what he is. I love him as he is. I love him without reservation or limit. He is my sun, my moon, and all between. But our communities do not approve of our association, and we do belong to our communities. How can we be together, when our people are at odds? I know only that if there is not some way to bridge across the social and philosophical gulf that separates us, I may lose that love, just as I may lose my father, and then I will die of despair, and perhaps my friend will too. We need each other, and I think our communities need each other, or both will perish. The world is not bound by a single creed; there are many creeds, and it is right that there be these differences, for what works in one situation may not work in another. Maybe no one way can save the world. Maybe no two ways can do it. But two are surely better than one. Can we not accept each other as we are? We differ much as man differs from woman, yet we must act together if we are to survive. I beg of you, I beg of the world: is there not some way to do it? Isn't there some way?"
Then, abruptly, she was done, unable to speak further. She sat, and Bry saw that she was crying. The hell with protocol! He put his arm around her, and she wept silently into his shoulder. She had tried so hard, speaking so brilliantly, baring her soul, suffering such humiliation—and for what? "I love you," he whispered into her hair. "I love you, I love you, no matter what."
There was a pause of several minutes. Bry glanced across at Jes, and saw her sitting stone-faced. The embarrassment of the good people of the Meeting was almost tangible. Surely there had never before been a message like this!
Then at last an elder rose to speak. "We stand rebuked. We were perhaps too hasty to judge by appearance. There must be a way."
In a moment another stood. "With due respect, I beg to disagree. I suspect that 'rebuked' may be too moderate a word. We stand shamed. We have walked the path of isolation, instead of reaching out to help those in need. May the Lord forgive us that error, and see that we never repeat it."
Bry knew, with sudden revelation, that the embarrassment of the people of the Meeting had not been for Tourette, but for themselves. She had gotten through.
Then a third: "I believe there are those among us who would like to inquire about Aikido."
And another: "Perhaps we have seen it already." There was a general chuckle.
Soon the eldest elder turned to shake hands with the adjacent elder, and the Meeting was over. But the group did not disperse. Attention was centering on Tourette.
An elder approached her. "We know something of antibiotic-resistant diseases. We have alternative techniques that are not generally known to medicine. We may be able to treat thy father, and others who fall ill. What is the telephone number by which we can reach a responsible person in thy community?"
Then Bry knew it was going to be all right. The God of the Quakers—the God of all people—had answered.
In the 1990s antibiotic-resistant strains of disease increased dramatically. For example, Streptococcus pneumoniae, causing pneumonia, meningitis, and some deadly bloodstream infections, evolved variants that could not be cured with penicillin or other common antibiotics. Diseases that had seemed to be on the way to extinction returned with renewed force. This was a sinister indication of the future.
One of the most significant trends in the later history of mankind was the formation and expansion of cities. These brought the advantages of safety from assorted predators, convenience for trade and association, and comfort. Civilization was largely built around great cities. But cities also put a strain on the local productivity of the land, reaching far out into the countryside for their sustenance. Their garbage—solid, liquid, and gaseous—polluted earth, water, and air. Their increasingly crowded conditions made them prime reservoirs of disease. Infectious agents prosper best when there are many targets within easy range. Thus the large predators of the early years were replaced by the invisibly small predators of the later years.
In the twentieth century the growth of cities accelerated, a function of the growth of global human population and its increasing concentration in metropolitan areas. By the end of the millennium there were perhaps twenty cities with populations greater than ten million people. As the climate changed, food became scant, pollution got worse, and treatment-resistant diseases evolved, such cities were increasingly ravaged by modern plagues ranging from flu to AIDS. As in ancient times, such as during the plague of Athens, civilized restraints broke down, so that plagues of human ferocity amplified the effects. Life continued for some, but the quality of it was drastically reduced.
A few had acted on their awareness of the mischief they saw coming, establishing enclaves of civilization and relative affluence in remote districts. But in time these, too, became prey for the brutish remnant of the larger societies. It required a very special combination of qualities to survive such onslaughts.
The time is circa A.D. 2025; the place is the Andean mountain range of Chile, South America. It is midsummer: December.
FLO LOOKED UP FROM HER work as Wilda dashed in. "What is it, dear?"
"Bad men!" the child gasped. "Up on the fog ridge!"
This was probably mischief. "How do you know?"
"Flint and I were up there picking berries, and we saw them. We didn't know they were bad, but we didn't trust them, so we watched. They took down the baffles."
That made the diagnosis almost certain. "Dirk," Flo called.
Dirk came from the other room. "Something's up?"
"The children saw strangers taking down the baffles."
"I'll go inquire."
Flo felt a chill. "Alone?"
He paused. "Maybe put in a call to Tourette's father. We can go together."
She picked up the phone and touched the key for Tourette's address. In a moment the young woman answered. "Yes, Flo?"
"Strangers are taking down the baffles. Dirk thought your dad might want to go with him to inquire."
"I know he will. Meet at the fork in half an hour?"
"That will do."
Flo hung up. "Fork in half an hour."
"On my way." Dirk went out.
Flo continued working on her bread, but she was uneasy. The baffles were vital to the well-being of both the Dreams and Bones enclaves. They were large vertical frameworks covered with fine nylon mesh that collected condensing water from the high mountain fog. Though the effect was diffuse, enough water dripped down to not only provide for the needs of the two enclaves, but to run a generator on the way down. This supplemented the current generated by the Solar Stirling engines, especially on cloudy days. But the water was the essential element; without it they would soon be in trouble.
In fact water was the main problem, here in the Andes. Immediately inland from the Pacific coast was the Desierto de Atacama, perhaps the longest and thinnest desert in the world, paralleling the great Andes range. It very seldom rained in this locale, and few rivers made their way down from the mountains. That was why it was a largely barren region. Which was in turn why the enclaves had been established here: to be well away from any big city. But even here they were not entirely safe.
It had been coincidence that two enclaves had set up so close together. Neither had been aware of the plans of the others until preparations were well under way. At first relations between the two had been tacitly hostile. Then the plague had come to Bones. The medics of Dreams had gone to help, using their array of special therapies. They had brought Tourette's father to the heated greenhouse, to isolate him, and plied him with derivatives from rare medicinal herbs salvaged from the declining rain forests. It was a difficult search, but in time they found an antibiotic to which the disease was not resistant, and then he mended. Just in time, for by then others were coming down with it. They had used the treatment on those others, and stopped the plague before it was fairly started. It was clear that they had thereby managed to save a number of lives that would otherwise very likely have been lost.
After that, relations between the two communities had thawed considerably. The folk of Bones wanted to repay the favor, in money or in kind, but the folk of Dreams would accept no payment for doing what was right to do. The matter faded without resolution. Now it was six months after the onset of the illness, and all were recovered, and both communities were doing well. They still existed apart, with different philosophies, but visiting occurred between them, and Bry and Tourette were not the only young folk dating across community lines. When anything important came up, of mutual interest, the communities kept each other advised. Hence her call to Tourette, because both communities depended on the cloud harvest for water.
In due course Dirk returned. "Remember Bub?" he asked. "He's the leader of a band of raiders. They demand that we send two female liaison personnel within the hour, one from each enclave, to stay with them and negotiate terms."
"Terms?" Flo asked sharply.
"In general, they want to take a hefty chunk of our supplies: food, blankets, clothing—" He broke off, looking uncomfortable.
"Women?" she prompted.
"They want girls, yes. They promise to return them after they are through with them."
Flo grimaced. That would mean barefoot, pregnant, diseased, and dead in spirit. "And what is their threat?"
"The baffles will not be allowed up until they are satisfied with the deal."
"What is their strength?"
"We don't know, but it is clear that they have a sufficient force to maintain possession of the baffles. They showed us just enough snipers dug in around the area to satisfy us that it is not an empty threat. We will have no water until we deal with them."
"They mean to bleed us dry," Flo said angrily. "In more than one sense. And they may destroy us after that anyway."
"Yes. This is a bad situation. They demand that two more people, one from each enclave, come within the following hour to serve as runners, arranging for the goods to be delivered. The first batch they want by dusk today. Now I must report to the elders."
"The elders are not going to agree to any of the demands. Neither are the folk of Bones."
"I know," he said heavily. "But if we don't get those liaison people out there within the hour, the raiders will burn the baffles. Then they'll shoot us down as we run out of water and come out."
"It's hostages they want. Women they can use or torture while they wait. To goose us into prompt capitulation."
"Yes. They have figured it out. Apparently that is their business: preying on isolated communities. When they have squeezed one for all it's worth, and the pickings diminish, they move on to the next. They are experienced in what they do, and make few mistakes. They don't just charge in, because some communities have mines and traps for the unwary. They force representatives to bring the goods out to the raiders, on a regular schedule. It is all very organized."
"I'll go," Flo said.
"What?"
"I'll be the hostage from Dreams. That fits their demand, and they won't be much interested in raping me."
"Flo—"
"Who else should be sent out?"
Dirk shook his head ruefully. "I'll tell the elders." He kissed her and departed.
Flo prepared herself, then walked out on the trail to the fork. She had tried to make it seem routine, pre-empting the decision of the elders, but she was afraid. She knew the elders would not readily agree to bring out their goods, and would absolutely balk at sending out any young women. The community of Bones, with a more militant attitude, would angrily refuse. That meant that the hostages would be in trouble. If Bones even sent a hostage.
But there at the fork stood a young woman: a slender beauty with lustrous black hair, in a skirt and blouse as if going on a picnic. She wore a knife at her hip, in the Bones manner. No, not a woman, but a girl of nine or ten, not yet grown. "Oh, honey," Flo said, hurrying to meet her. "You must not be the one. Those raiders—"
The girl turned great dark eyes on her. "Do you not know me?"
"Dear, I don't. But I must warn you that this is no polite encounter. You must go back and have them send out—" She hesitated, not wishing to affront the girl. "An older, unattractive woman."
"I am Minne. Adopted daughter of Hugh and Anne. We met once, a while ago."
Flo remembered Hugh and Anne, the musician and dancer. They had met seven years ago on the coast. They had had a darling little girl. The age was consistent. And that child had been—could it possibly be? "And you—how could you be—?"
"Your natural daughter? I am, you know. That is why I chose to come here. I knew I would be needed." She glanced up the path. "We must go, or they will become impatient."
"But Minne, you don't understand. This is no innocent picnic. Those men—"
"Please, Flo. We will have time to talk. Then I will show you the mark between my toes. Now we must reach the baffles in time." She walked on up the trail, forcing Flo to hurry to catch up. The girl simply would not listen to Flo's real concern, and Flo was reluctant to spell it out. What would a child of nine know of rape and torture and killing?
They moved up the mountain, and in due course reached the ledge below the baffles. There were now just the frames, because the nylon nets had been furled. When spread, the nets were huge, six meters high and twice as wide, though they looked small from this distance. Ten million droplets of fog had to coalesce to form a single drop of water, but on a heavy fog day, thousands of gallons of water dripped off the nets into the main collection pipe. This was one of the driest regions on earth; this was the only significant source of water for the two communities. Which was what made it so vital. Without the spread nets, they could not survive here.
And the baffles were now in the hands of a ruthless enemy. Several rough men were standing around the ledge, looking up at the empty frames, holding rifles at the ready.
A man strode down to meet them. "Well now: one winner and one loser. Have your groups agreed to the terms?"
"No," Flo said tightly. Obviously she was the loser—which meant that Minne was the winner. That was not good news for either of them. Obviously these brutes would stop at nothing.
"No," Minne echoed, seeming undaunted.
He nodded. "Sometimes it takes time for them to see the light. If they do not come to their senses by dusk today, they will hear your screams." He looked meaningfully at Flo.
Minne stepped between them. "My father will not harm my mother."
He stared. "What?"
Flo decided to let the improbabilities of the girl's attitude go for now. This was Bub; she had no trouble recognizing him, even after so many years. "You raped me, ten years ago. This is our daughter."
"It's not possible!" But he looked shaken. Obviously such a thing had never occurred to him.
"As you wish," Minne said. She took a seat on a rock. "We will be here for the day. Because I know you, Father, I will give you this advice: if you value your life, flee at dusk, and never return." She looked away, dismissing him.
Disgruntled, Bub went to consult with the other men. Flo looked at Minne. "I do not like him," the girl said. "But he is my blood father, so I had to come to warn him."
Flo struggled again with the weirdness of the girl's manner. She still wasn't sure that this was her natural daughter, though it seemed likely. But that made Minne the very worst possible hostage, as far as Flo personally was concerned. How could she allow such a child to be abused? "Maybe figuratively," she suggested. "You identify with someone."
The girl turned a disconcerting gaze on her. "Someone 33,000 years ago," she said.
Flo could not fathom this, so let it go. "Maybe you can slip away at dusk. It is not wise for a girl like you to be here among these brute men."
"I came to protect you. I shall see that you are not harmed."
The strangeness would not let go. "Within an hour, the community representatives will arrive. After that, the mood will turn ugly."
"I will divert the men."
Apparently nothing she could say would get through to Minne. Could the girl be simple, or out of touch with reality? That would explain a lot. But she seemed neither stupid nor out of touch. Rather, she had an eerie awareness of reality that Flo was beginning to envy.
After a time, Minne spoke again. "I came here also because I wanted to be with you, one time. To love you." She removed her shoe and showed her left foot. There was the mark between the first and second toes.
Something melted in Flo. Suddenly she accepted everything, regardless of the confusion. "Oh, honey, I have been looking for you all my life! I'm glad you found a good family, and I'd never want to deprive you of it, but how I have missed you!"
The girl hugged her, crying. "Mother."
"Baby." Flo was crying too. This was a fulfillment of a kind she had longed for, but never expected to experience. Reunion with her lost child.
In due course the emissaries appeared—and Flo was surprised and dismayed. Bry and Tourette! Whatever had possessed them to volunteer for this dreadful danger? The girl was even dressed in a foolish skirt and blouse, similar to Minne's outfit, showing too much of her legs and bosom as she walked. Sheer folly!
Bub walked out to meet them. Flo couldn't hear what was said, but she didn't need to: the two enclaves were not acceding to the terms. But what would that mean for the water supply?
Bub turned angrily and signaled to his men. Four dashed up and grabbed Bry and Tourette by the arms. Bub was taking them hostage! Because they hadn't brought him the capitulation he demanded. Flo started to get up, to protest this violation of the normal procedures of truce, but Minne drew back on her arm. "Accept it," she murmured.
What did she know, that Flo didn't? The raiders could hardly have better hostages than these. Tourette was the daughter of the leader of the Bones enclave, and beloved by the Dreams enclave too. Bry, too, was respected by both groups, and not just because he was so plainly in love with Tourette. Any threat to one would devastate the other.
Bub searched Bry, running his hands efficiently over body and clothing. Bry was unarmed. Then he searched Tourette, taking the trouble to squeeze her breasts and bottom in the process, and found a small pistol and a knife. Flo realized that Minne had so disconcerted the man that he had forgotten to take her knife from her; she still wore it.
The men hauled the two of them across to join Flo and Minne. "Those idiots are going to get two of you tortured," Bub said darkly. "And two of you will do for entertainment until more girls are delivered. By dusk. You had better hope that your enclaves see the light by then."
"Flee at dusk," Minne repeated to him. "Don't tell your men."
"My presence is all that keeps my men from raping you right now," Bub replied contemptuously. "You think you're too young, but you're not. They get a special thrill from youth. After dusk, if the goods aren't here, I'll let them." He paused, reconsidering. "In fact, maybe it's best to encourage your folk now. Sound carries well, up here. Let's see what it takes to get a good scream." He turned to Tourette. "You first. Take off your clothes, or we will tear them off you. We encourage you to scream. There's no point in hurting you more than necessary. But scream you will, repeatedly."
"Have your men gather," Minne said. Then she stood, assumed a pose, and began to dance.
Bub stared. So did Flo. What was the girl up to? She was well formed for a child, and had good motions, but she was a child. Yet her dance was fascinating in its suggestive expertise. In a moment she had the attention of every man in the vicinity, and probably of the hidden snipers too. Flo was appalled; too many of the men obviously did have perverted interests. This was an excellent way to get herself raped before Tourette.
But the men, restrained by the glowers of their leader, merely watched. Bub might not believe what Minne had told him, but it surely made him hesitate before abusing her. Minne danced with increasing flair, her skirt and hair flaring out. It wasn't just her slender body; there was something about the way she moved that was captivating. The way her mother Anne had danced, years ago. Flo had not before realized how much of the appeal of a dance was from the motions, rather than just the body. Minne had unparalleled grace. For the moment she was actually distracting them from Tourette, who merely stood watching.
Dusk was approaching. But the girl did not stop. She danced indefatigably, and the men watched, unable to draw themselves away. When at last their interest seemed about to flag, Tourette joined her in the dance. Tourette's motions were not as smooth, but her body was quite well formed, and her blouse was tight, showing the motions of her breasts, which were not tightly bound. Her skirt spread out and up often, showing glimpses of her well fleshed thighs. If she suffered any twitches, they were masked by the energy of the dance. This was more than enough to renew spectator interest. The girl had been the appetizer; the woman was the main event. The two circled each other, moving in tandem, as if they had rehearsed this number. As surely they had.
"What on earth are they doing?" Flo asked Bry. "This is just getting those brutes more excited."
"Dusk is the key," he replied enigmatically. "It will not be long now."
Minne whirled, then faced outward and looked directly at Bub, warningly. What did she know?
Bub looked around. "Someone's missing," he muttered. He walked into the closing darkness, looking.
Minne finally ceased her dancing, and returned to join Flo. "It keeps me warm," she confided.
"Come close to me; I'm warm," Flo said. The girl agreed, and snuggled close.
Tourette continued a little longer, then also stopped. "Now it is dusk," she said. She and Bry joined Flo and Minne against the rock.
"Party time!" one of the men said.
"Not till Bub says," another warned him. "He wants that second gal first."
"Well, we'd better set up anyway."
The men brought wood to make a fire. There wasn't much, but they did find enough to make a small one. The chill fell quickly, even in summer, this high on the mountain. Several grouped around it, warming their hands. They did not offer the hostages a place by it.
Flo had a dark suspicion that made sense of certain mysteries. But she didn't dare ask any of the three young folk about it.
"Hey, where's our cook?" a man asked. "It's time for dinner."
"He was sleeping in the hollow over there."
"I'll go wake the lazy bastard." The man walked into the shadow.
After a time, another looked into the darkness. "Hey, what's keeping you?" There was no answer. Disgruntled, he went out himself.
In time, the remaining three men began to get nervous. "Something's wrong," one muttered. "Where's Bub?"
Flo looked around. The flickering light of the fire illuminated the rock close to it, while the one against which they sat was mostly in shadow. She realized that this was not the best place to be, if her suspicion was correct. "We should move," she said, and hoisted her bulk up. She and the others walked to the other rock, closer to the brightness of the fire, and settled down against it. The girl rejoined her, while Bry and Tourette sat close beside them. The three men seemed not to notice; they were peering nervously out into the darkness. Flo wondered whether the four of them could simply walk out of there. But that would accomplish nothing; without hostages, the raiders would simply burn the baffles. In any event, this was probably the best place to be, and not just because it was a bit warmer than the other. They were fully visible here.
"Where the hell are they?" one man demanded. "No one's supposed to sneak off like this."
"I'll check the cook myself," another said. "Probably somebody's stupid idea of a joke." He walked into the night.
"Keep in touch," one of the others said nervously.
"Okay, I'll whistle." He did so, and the sound of his halfway tuneless melody floated back as he walked.
Then it stopped.
"Hey, whistle!" a man by the fire called. But there was no sound.
"Damn it, now I know there's trouble," the other said. He lifted his rifle. "And these bitches are probably in on it." He whirled and fired. The bullet struck the rock where Flo had been until recently.
Flo flinched. This made her look prescient. If they had stayed there, they might have been hit But that wasn't why she had made them move. It was only for the light.
"Stop that," the other man shouted. "They're our hostages. And I think maybe we need them."
"For sure." The first man reoriented his rifle. "Come here, bitches."
"Close your eyes," Minne said. Bry and Tourette did.
"But—" Flo protested.
"Now." The girl put her hand across Flo's face.
Not knowing what to make of this, Flo obeyed. There was a minute or so of silence.
"Okay, now you can look."
Flo opened her eyes. The men were gone.
Flo looked at Minne. "What happened?"
"We can go home now. We can use brands from the fire to see our way."
"But the men—the snipers—"
"Tell them what you saw, when you return to Dreams."
"But I didn't see anything! The men were there, then they weren't."
"Yes."
"But what am I to make of that? They wouldn't just go away on their own." But she already had a notion. She had chosen a bright spot to sit, so that anyone firing a rifle would be able to see exactly who the four of them were, and where. So as not to shoot them by accident. She had been caught by surprise by the deadly silence of it.
Minne looked at her. The girl's eyes reflected the fire eerily. "Remember the plague?"
"Yes, but—"
"It's payback time," Tourette said.
That was confirmation. It did make sense. The pacifists of Dreams had done the folk of Bones a significant favor, when a problem had come that the survivalists couldn't handle. Dreams had not accepted payment. But there had been a debt. Now that debt had been paid, in a way the pacifists could never acknowledge. Maybe they would elect simply not to question where the raiders had gone.
The two girls from Bones had distracted the raiders, including any nearby snipers, so that they would not be alert for the developing siege. So that they would not realize that the hunters had become the hunted. Until too late. They had deliberately risked getting raped, showing the kind of discipline for which they had been trained.
Probably the bodies would never be found. Trust the survivalists to know their business. If they could take out armed raiders one by one without a sound, they could surely handle the rest of it. And with luck, no other raiders would come, for they would have warning that this region was dangerous. Because of the surprising symbiosis of communities with fundamentally opposing philosophies.
"Apparently they just went away," Flo said as they all picked brands from the fire. "That is all we need to know," Minne nodded. That was the proper answer.
Thus humanity survived both the diseases and the crazed remnants of the population. Isolation and special cooperation were the keys to such success. In time with the greatly diminished prospects that such a limited, widespread population provided, the major diseases died out, and the world was safe for human re-colonization. This was the hope of Earth. Perhaps this time it would be done with more care for the future.
THEORETICALLY, THE AUTHOR IS GOD of his creation, having everything in his story exactly the way he wants it. But in practice it often works out otherwise. It wasn't just complications of scheduling, which caused the writing of this novel to stretch out a year beyond my original completion date. It wasn't the fact that I started it on the Sprint word processor in DOS, and finished it on Microsoft Word 7 in Windows 95, with aspects of my formatting changing accordingly. The material itself developed its own will. This volume has a number of examples. Like the preceding two volumes, Isle of Woman and Shame of Man, this one samples the whole of human history and geography, from Australopithecus of five million years ago to Modern mankind of the recent future. As with the prior volumes, I had a number of definite notions to explore. As before, much of the work of research was done by my researcher Alan Riggs, whose own first story was published in the interim in Tales from the Great Turtle, and with the help of the library of the University of South Florida, which freely lent us arcane references. But several of my favorites turned out quite differently than anticipated.
I worked out special character traits for each major character, especially their curses: Sam was afraid he would marry an ugly woman, Flo would lose what was most precious to her, Ned was doomed to be betrayed, Jes would be unmasked, Bry would have misfortune, and Lin would be disfigured. But it was hard to follow though; the story line preferred to follow its own complications. Oh, those curses did manifest, but after a time they faded out or were resolved. After that I focused more on the story lines rather than trying to hold my characters to particular molds. So you might say I stopped trying to be God, and yielded to the imperatives of the novel.
The names were a separate challenge. I needed to keep the names the same or very similar throughout the novel, so that readers would know the basic identities, but names that will do for a cave man and his mate, such as Ugh and Oola, don't work as well for contemporary times. In the first novel, I gave my main characters descriptive names, like Blaze and Ember, and stayed with them throughout. In the second novel, I started with simple sounds, like Hu and An, and embellished them as human society became more sophisticated. This time I used simple modern names, ignoring seeming anachronism. Of the three approaches, I think the first works best, so for the next novel I may try descriptive names again. I learn from each novel. The time passing for the main characters varies too. The first novel covered three generations, the second one generation, and this novel covered about half a generation. I think the second approach works best: one year between chapters. It gets complicated when several years pass in a single chapter, as is the case in Chapters 10 and 15, but I still had the other characters age only six months per chapter, overall. This is apart from the way the characters are illustrating global history spanning millions of years, and a simple fixed personal rate per chapter seems best.
Normally I try to space out the regions and times of the settings, so that the story line constantly traverses the globe and doesn't stay long in any particular time or place. But early man was mostly in Africa, so the first settings cluster there. This time the middle settings tended to cluster around Europe, and sometimes it was not possible to space them out without losing the variety of experience I was also trying for. For example, Chapters 14 and 15 were both in western Asia, set only forty years apart. One related to the terrible bubonic plague, and the other to a special event in Mongol history; who would have thought they overlapped in space/ time? But they did, so I played it through as it was. Chapters 17 and 18 both occur in France, though almost 300 years apart; I wanted the minuet and the Maginot Line, and could not escape France, though I tried.
I was going to show how ancient the making of cloth must be. But there is no record of truly primitive cloth; I believe it existed, but without proof, my case is weak. So I had to hedge. However, after I completed the novel, evidence of 27,000 year old weaving at a site in the Czech Republic was published in Discover magazine, and its evident sophistication suggested that it had developed a long time before that. So I think my thesis is on the way to being documented. I was going to show my character Sam always doing construction, on roads, walls, buildings, fortifications, and the like, but so much of the novel is before any real building was done that I had to find other employments for him. By the time there was real building, the complications of scheduling other characters prevented me from having Sam as the protagonist. So while things did not fall apart, they did get somewhat muddled in terms of my original notions. I could manipulate history only so far, to fit the needs of my characters.
More and more evidence has been appearing to indicate that mankind came to the western hemisphere long before the traditional date of 12,000 years ago. In the prior novels, I deemed the evidence insufficient, but this time I scheduled a major chapter showing how it could have been. But after I wrote that chapter, more evidence appeared on the other side, invalidating some of my basis. The early stone arrow and spear points—that it was thought only man's hand could have chipped—turn out to have been chipped by falling off a cliff onto a particular surface. The chipping may indeed date from 35,000 years ago, but required no hand of man. So were there really people in the Americas 33,000 years ago? There could have been, but I fear there were not.
For Chapter 8 I had something really special in mind: the Sphinx. I got a video that indicated that the Sphinx in Egypt was actually far older than the pyramids. The reasoning was that the Sphinx showed patterns of weathering that had to have been caused by water erosion. How could that be, in the dry desert? Well, 10,000 years ago the Sahara was a good deal wetter than it is today; in fact there were several major rivers through it. So the Sphinx must have been made back then. The video was persuasive, so I had my researcher, Alan, view it. But he was a real spoilsport, unconvinced. He pointed out reasons that it wasn't so. The problem with Alan is that he's usually right; he has messed up any number of my bright notions, so that I have had to stick with reality. Since this series is history, not fantasy, regardless what the publisher may put on the cover, that's just as well. So my setting of the carving of the Sphinx 10,000 years ago, with all that implied for the true nature of early Egyptian history, had to be ditched. Ned was going to be a designer, getting that great figure right. Wona was going to be attracted to him because of that importance. What was there left to write about, in that region then, with the Sphinx gone? Well, as it turned out, there were artistic works of mankind dating from the Sahara region at that time. So it was a much less dramatic setting, but historical, as it seems the early Sphinx was not.
Next the Ice Man, in Chapter 9. Ah, the Ice Man! I tracked him from his discovery in the mountain glacier, knowing I would write about him, waiting eagerly for the book about him to be published, reading articles about him. And he came through nicely. He was named Otzi in Europe, so I went along with that. Ongoing research required me to substantially revise the chapter, after the first draft; I was unable to have the story line I first tried, because it wouldn't have made sense in terms of what was known of the times. Again, history was pushing me around. After I finished the revised story, more was discovered and published, starting to invalidate some of the bases of my setting. Too bad; I can't endlessly rewrite as interpretations change. I worked from the best available evidence and theory at the time. Later indications suggest that he was not a mere shepherd, perhaps instead being a metal-smith, but the final verdict is not yet in. So did he have a nice daughter named Snow? Who can say? He was surely a family man of some kind, and could have been as I portray him. I couldn't spare him his fate, but at least I could save his daughter.
In each of the GEODYSSEY novels I have tried to have significant chapters at the one-quarter, one-half, and three-quarter marks, with the major one in the center. Thus Catal Huyuk in the first one, one of the world's earliest cities, likely origin of the later Sumerian culture of Mesopotamia. Thus the Philistines from the Greek culture in the second one, giving the primitive wandering Hebrews a hand up toward civilization and receiving no gratitude in return. And the Greeks themselves in this volume. I resisted getting into the standard classical cultures, because of my aversion to the ignorant standard view of civilization, wherein it starts with Egypt, flowers in Greece, and was spread by Rome and then lost before being revived by modern western Europe. What of Asia, Africa, early America? There was a hell of a lot more going on in the world than the standard texts knew of, and I have tried to show it in these volumes. But though classical history was by no means all there was, neither was it insignificant. So, reluctantly, I have come to it in this volume, and discovered lo! it is interesting too. But what dragged me into it was not my sense of fairness, but rather my fascination with the trireme or trieres, the triple-decker rowing ships. When I was in school, they didn't know how these were managed. Now they have figured it out, though no actual vessel has been recovered. There were even four- and five-decker ships. So could a tomboy girl have found work on a trieres? Who can say she did not, in that position of pipeman, that required a sense of beat and music rather than heavy muscle? Especially when the ship is captained by Ittai, a good seafarer from the prior volume, and guarded by Kettle, a simple but honest former slave from the first volume? And so, from my childhood curiosity about a three-tiered ship came the longest story of the first three volumes, a 48,000 word short novel in itself, featuring travel, battle, conscience, work, plague, challenge, and love. I made my fortune on funny fantasy, but this historical adventure is closer to my heart. Even so, there was more to be known than I could compass. Everything from the nature of threshing grain to weaving tapestry. So I slid by some things without going into much detail, keeping the story moving. It is too easy to get lost in the marvelous detail, and lose the living animation of the cultures which is my main purpose. And naturally, after I had carefully structured and written the chapter, my researcher discovered that I had an error in the sequencing; the Spartan siege and the onset of the plague came not in the fall, as I originally had it, but in the spring. So I had to make significant adjustments, hoping that my narrative still made sense. Chapter 11, with Petra, I wanted to show in the prior volume. But I already had too many settings around the Mediterranean Sea, so substituted a Japanese setting. So Petra is in this volume—which is even more concentrated on the Eurasian theater. I had to juggle chapters to make it fit, even so, which made my ongoing family relations tricky. But what a grand vision Petra turned out to be, with its temples carved into the faces of cliffs. I couldn't show all of them, because some had not yet been constructed at the time of this setting, but it was still impressive. I had expected it to follow the British Boudica, but the dates didn't quite mesh. I had no idea that it would overlap the Biblical King Herod, or how intriguing that intrigue would be. The fact is, anywhere in history is fascinating; it has just to be sampled, and the glory and skullduggery appear. What a louse Herod is! He gets into the sack with his niece, and decides to kill his wife, not to mention that business with the plattered head of a critic named John, and execution by torture of a mystic named Jesus.
And Queen Boudica, in Chapter 12, spelled as our research indicates is authentic. I had read about her decades ago, but was reminded of it by an ad for silver coins dating from that period. So I did what I love: I got into the actual guts of it, and learned what had actually happened. The supposedly civilized Romans acted with stunning barbarism, publicly stripping and flogging the queen and raping her young daughters. Exactly how young is not known, but they could have been children. Rome was lucky not to have lost Britain as a result of that caper. But if there was anything the Romans could do well, it was fight battles; they had discipline like none seen before. So they kept Britain. But what was I to do with Wildflower, the queen's younger daughter? She disappeared, nameless, in history, after her awful experience. So I rescued her, and she became a worthy continuing character following in the steps of the Ice Man's daughter. I hadn't seen that coming.
Chapter 13 was a surprise. I wanted to explore the matter of the word "slave" deriving from "Slav." It turned out to be an uncertain connection, and difficult to illustrate fictively. But my researcher discovered the Kingdom of Samo, unlisted in most references, and since my lead character for that chapter was Sam, I couldn't resist. So once again the novel went in a different direction, and perhaps not a consequential one. Yet I wonder: could there have been a Sam? It is also tempting to conjecture that the word "avarice," meaning extreme greed, derives from "Avar," the people who raided Europe for its booty. Of course the Avars were only doing what every conqueror does, including especially the Europeans when they invaded the rest of the world. Reputation sometimes depends on whose ox is gored.
Then the Mongols. I have been fascinated with them since college. In fact, since high school, when I discovered Coleridge's poem "Kubla Khan" and was entranced. Conventional history largely ignores them, except when they threatened Europe, but they were a major factor in Asian history. They were the ultimate conservatives: they solved the crime and welfare problems the old-fashioned way, by slaughtering anyone who was into mischief or who would not or could not work. It was said that after the Mongol conquest, a beautiful virgin could travel alone with a bag of gold from Asia to Europe without being molested. That may have been an exaggeration, but suggests the way of it. Those in the path of the Mongols learned fear in a hurry, or they died. But I, being of liberal bent, would not have cared to live in that society. I study it from afar. I remembered an episode from a book I read in 1970, of a prince who just couldn't hold on to his territory, until about the third or fourth time after Tamerlane rescued him, he turned suddenly competent. What could account for that? In that quarter-century curiosity of mine was the genesis of a 32,000 word novella, wherein Wildflower finally gets her man. I found that the later Mongols were just as shifty and treacherous as anyone else in history. So was there an aphrodisiac herb of the type Sahara described? That is doubtful. My earlier researches in the Arabian Nights tales acquainted me with the rich folklore of the Moslem region, and the hyperbole used. For example, there was the fabulous "bhang," a sleep-inducing narcotic, a strong dose of which was said to be such that if an elephant merely sniffed it, the creature would sleep from year to year. In that spirit I conjecture a love potion whose potency would be mainly in the belief folk had of its nature.
Meanwhile there was the Great Chinese Wall. I sent Alan into that research, expecting to have a setting around 221 B.C. He returned with a verdict similar to that on the Sphinx: no can do. There was no such unified wall. What? But all of history says—but all of history was wrong. Again. It did not impede the Mongol conquest of China, because it wasn't there. Most of that wall was built in the Ming dynasty, in the sixteenth century, after the Mongols had been expelled from China, the setting for my Chapter 16. There is not now, and never was, a unified three thousand mile long stone wall. Only disconnected local walls, most of which were of packed earth rather than stone. So I learned what did not entirely please me, and now you know it too. Is it true that the Chinese Wall is the only man-made artifact that shows from space? No—because it isn't there, and if it were there, it would be too thin to be seen from such a distance. Another illusion of history bites the dust.
Chapter 17 derives from a cute little melody I heard on the radio that started a chain of thought: Suppose there is a meeting of enemies, the men just about ready to fight, the women afraid the truce will come apart before it starts, with great mutual harm. Then a child brings a scribbled bit of music, and the musician plays it, and the women start dancing and hauling the men in, and instead of battle there is harmony after all. Because of that new little dance, the minuet. I remembered the minuet from the time I was hauled in to see a first-grade presentation in which my daughter Cheryl participated. You know the type; you have to watch and applaud so as to support your child and the school, no matter how amateurish the production is. But when my daughter's class performed, it was the minuet, in period costume, and I was entranced; it was the most darling thing I had seen in years, and Cheryl was just perfect. Those stately, mannered steps and turns—my boredom was transformed to wonder and delight. So, close to twenty years later, I told Alan, "Find me that setting." We had too much of Europe, and not enough of the New World, in this volume, so he looked in America—and couldn't find it. America of those days was rough frontier country; there were no fancy balls with costumed women, and certainly not with armed men present. So we had to go back to Europe, to the court of King Louis XIV, one of those foppish settings I have avoided all my life. And lo, Louis turned out to be much more interesting than I had thought, and a master of the dance and great supporter of the arts. Later in life he was to become spoiled by power, but this was his beginning, and he was a remarkably apt and appealing figure. So I couldn't have my original notion, again, but found one perhaps as worthy. So what was the cute little tune that had set me off? It turned out to be from the movie The Piano, a creature of quite a different nature.
Chapter 18, about the Maginot Line of France, had a similarly devious derivation. In the 1980s I asked my literary agent of the time, Kirby McCauley, what genres were hot, and he said High Fantasy and World War II. Well, my fantasy might better be called low, and why should I want to mess with World War II? After all, I was there, and my family barely got out of Europe in time, after my father was arrested without cause by the fascist government of Spain at the time Hitler met with Franco; Poland and France had fallen, and England was seemingly next. We came across on the last regular passenger boat, the Excalibur, on the same trip that the one-time king of England, Edward VIII, took, in 1940, and I had my sixth birthday on that ship, with a cake made of sawdust because supplies were short. What interest did I have in World War II? Right; the question brought the answer, and in due course I wrote my World War II novel Volk. But one of the things I had planned to explore therein got squeezed out, by processes similar to those described here, so I had no section featuring the Maginot Line. So I decided to show it here. Which put me right back into France. Again.
For Chapter 19 I had in mind the Solar Stirling engine, one of a number of intriguing developments in the arena of sustainable power. I first read of the original Stirling engine in Scientific American decades ago, and was never quite able to figure out how it worked, but I saw the potential in its external combustion. When I learned of the solar variant, I went after it. The material I got related to Sunpower Inc., a small company designing and producing such engines. It turned out to be mind-bendingly complicated to grasp in detail. I read the book The Next Great Thing, which was interesting in its coverage of Sunpower's desperate efforts to make the engine work, but not very clear on technical detail. My son in law John read it and contacted Sunpower and got more material. Researcher Alan read it and consulted with John, and discussed it with me. But when I presented it in the novel, I had to simplify so drastically for clarity that most of that research was wasted. This is the nature of research novels; some of the best material has to be left out. But the Solar Stirling engine exists, and may indeed be a significant aspect of the future. Of course my planned community uses proven old technology like the hydraulic ram too, and is getting into the useful plants hemp and kenaf, which truly do represent two of the world's best hopes for the future production of useful fibers. The existing timber and pulp industries managed to suppress such alternatives in the past, but as the trees run out and the need becomes more pressing, significant changes will occur. For the setting I chose a type of planned community that intrigued my elder daughter Penny and me as we listened to a tape of Pete Seeger's song "The Garden." For the sponsoring religion I used the Quakers, because I was raised as a Quaker and profoundly respect its principles, though I elected not to join that religion as an adult. Quakers tend to be good businessmen and socially conscious citizens, and many are concentrated in the state of Pennsylvania, so well could be associated with a project of this type. This is not the first time I have had reference to the former Quaker use of "thee"; it occurs in my unpublished World War II novel Volk and a variant is in my ADEPT fantasy series of novels.
The cloud harvesting shown in Chapter 20 is already being done today, in the area described; it solved the water problems of local villages in the Andes.
So there was a good deal of misadventure, or at least changed direction, in the course of the writing of this novel, and much of it did not go at all the way I had anticipated. But that's the thing about writing, especially historical fiction: the author can indeed not have it all his own way. Perhaps that is the way it should be. The settings and the characters should have some say in their presentation.
I didn't have that kind of problem in the early chapters, because there is no recorded history to align with; the social aspect is mine to invent. And while I find the whole of history interesting, my greatest interest is in the early aspects. I saw the significance of the lockable knees in a public service TV program, and locked on to it immediately: such a seemingly small thing, with such a significant effect. To be able to stride without fatiguing the legs—a subtle but crucial change that enabled human beings to travel erect longer with less energy, and less heating, than other hominids. Scavenging for bone marrow was in the same program, and similarly critical; it gave mankind a good food source where for most creatures there was nothing, because they lacked the ability to crack open the bones. Provided he could not only get there, but get it away from other animals: encouragement to develop effective weapons.
But for me, the most important change was how mankind handled heat. I was satisfied that human beings lost much of their body fur during an aquatic phase, as shown in the two prior novels, but Alan dug up two obscure articles that showed another theory. None of the books seemed to have it, which is odd, because it is the most compelling argument I have seen in this particular arena. Lose the fur, dissipate the heat that your burgeoning brain generates—and suddenly mankind is the naked ape. Forget the Aquatic hypothesis; this makes sense on the open plain, where mankind was striding. It all fits together. Alan also found evidence that there are a number of (small) holes in the human skull that allow veinous blood to pass between the brain and the skin. Normally it flows from the brain to the skin, but when the body is under heat stress, it reverses, and the cooler blood of the skin flows to the brain. The fossil record shows that the number of these channels has increased steadily as the brain expanded.
Then the triple ploy, which is my own conjecture, based on research that showed me scattered parts of it. Sex, love, attachment, used in sequence to capture and hold a man who would rather be sowing his oats far more broadly. The change of the female breasts to become not merely to feed the baby, but to make her continuously appealing to the man. Thus the foundation of monogamy, because now it was possible for a single woman to satisfy the continual passion of a single man; and better for him to stay close to her than to wander too far afield, because otherwise she could breed at any time with someone else. In battle of the sexes, the man became larger and stronger and possessed of more physical ambition, but the woman became the major ongoing object of his desire. The downside was that this led also to prostitution and rape, because the woman could not readily turn off her sex appeal. But overall, it seems likely that even today a woman would rather live without a man, were she otherwise provided for, than a man without a woman. She has what he wants. Even the most intelligent, independent, or least scrupulous men still fall for the triple ploy.
There is also my answer to the reason for mankind's burgeoning brain, the largest known in the animal kingdom, relative to body size. He had already established his niche in the world, and was no longer in danger of extinction because of starvation or predation by panthers. It seems likely that the development of vocabulary and language was the engine that powered that expansion—but why was it necessary? That monstrous brain was a phenomenally expensive burden, forcing significant changes in all the rest of his body and life; why balance such a delicate albatross on the top of his precariously erect body? Because mankind's main competition now was either his own kind, or a near relative. He was in a mental arms race, and he who was slightly stupid lost out. This race continued until modern man developed linguistic tools as potent in their fashion as locked knees and hand weapons had been in theirs: syntax and high-velocity speech. These enabled modern man to accomplish more, verbally, with less actual brain, than Homo erectus could manage. That translated into better planning and organization, superior tools and weapons, and coordinated drives to achieve long-range objectives. Neither Homo erectus nor his offshoot Neandertal man could compete. But though the modern brain is not the largest ever, it remains a giant compared to that of any other creature.
And art, that enabled mankind to form larger and thus more powerful groups without as much internal dissent. If there is anything that defines mankind, aside from his intelligence, it is art. No other creature we know of even cares about it. Every human culture has its art, and many past cultures have left dramatic artistic monuments.
So the things that I hope made an impression in this volume are locked knees, bone marrow scavenging, the brain/heat/fur-loss/clothing connection, the triple ploy, the arms race, and the art/numbers connection. Thereafter it's mostly history, wherein the nuances of the creature's vast potentials are constantly played out. I hope you have found that worthwhile too.
And where is this history leading? To disaster, as I see it. Mankind's burgeoning brain enabled him to conquer the world, and his continuing interest in reproduction enabled him to overpopulate it. Panthers may have limited his population in the early days, but they have long since been nullified. No natural limit seems to exist. Now it seems that only mankind can limit mankind's population, and that isn't happening. Except—one of the seemingly conquered predators is returning. Disease. It is taking the place of the panthers. Through history it was always formidable. The plagues of Athens and other cities, and the bubonic plague, are only samples of an ongoing and deadly threat. There is also war, wherein the human creature's most formidable enemy is other human beings. Over the millennia various ways have been tried to protect communities from attack by other communities, without perfect success. Isolation and defense did not save the Ice Man's village from destruction, and might not have saved the community of Dreams, but for a special circumstance. Massive linear walls and defenses saved neither the Chinese nor the French. As long as there are too many people for the available resources, neither isolation nor defense lines can suffice. Mankind's refusal to take reasonable precautions, to discipline itself, is leading to an infinitely more brutal discipline by nature, and by mankind itself.
Because GEODYSSEY is a series, I try to have characters from prior novels appear in later novels, though each book has its own primary cast. Did you recognize them? Bub from Shame of Man raped Flo in Chapter 1. This time Blaze from Isle of Woman appeared in Chapter 4. Ember appeared in Chapter 5, with her husband Scorch and baby Crystal. I try to show such prior characters at the age they were in the historical time of the particular setting, but this can be tricky, because Blaze and Ember aged four years per chapter, while Hugh and Anne from Shame of Man aged only one year per chapter. Thus Blaze and Ember aged about seventy years in the course of human history, while Hugh and Anne aged only about twenty years. Sam, Flo, and the other siblings of Hope of Earth aged only about six months between chapters, or about a decade in the full novel. Thus when the characters of different novels interact, they do so at different ages. Blaze was ten in Chapter 4, while Ember, who paralleled him, was fourteen in Chapter 5. This is especially tricky in the case of Mina, the foundling who turns out to be Flo's lost baby; she aligns with this novel here, and ages at a different rate in the prior one. As I tried to clarify in the Introduction, the people are not really the same, nor are they strictly the descendants of those in earlier chapters; they are essentially similar types that appear throughout all human history. At any rate, Crockson, who is mentioned in Chapter 9 and appears in Chapter 10, is from Woman, and Ittai as already mentioned is from Man, while Kettle is from Woman. Guillaume, Jacques's commanding officer in Chapter 18, is the French version of Bill (William) from Man, the intelligent one, whose son Bille will later meet and love Mina. "Bil" actually first appeared in Chapter 3, along with his band leader Joe, also from Man. He appears again in Chapter 19, with his wife Fay and daughter Faience. Min appears again in Chapter 20, as Minne, with a problem of age because of the different time lines. But because all the characters live their full lives in each of their settings, Min can be nine years old in this novel though she was closer to fourteen at this time in the prior novel. Bub also appears again. How can he be a leader of raiders here, when he had other roles in the prior novel? Because these characters are actually representations of types, appearing all over the world all through human history, doing different things in different situations. The real unity in the series is its background: the phenomenally rich course of human experience.
So will the real human history lead to cannibalism, as in Woman, or in exhaustion of resources, as in Man, or in disease, as in Earth? I fear that if it does not, it still will be supremely unpleasant. If we don't take warning and do something to change course very soon. I hope we do. Our knowledge and intelligence and plain common sense should enable us to avoid destruction and become the true hope of Earth—if we choose to apply them.
Copyright © 1997 by Piers Anthony Jacob
Cover art by Tristan Elwell
ISBN: 0-812-57111-8