Jack's hideaway was in a bluff overlooking the stream by which Rod had been robbed. At this point the bluffs walled a pocket valley and the stream meandered between low banks cut in an alluvial field between the bluffs. The cave was formed by an overhang of limestone which roofed a room water-carved from shale in one bluff. The wall below it was too sheer to climb; the overhanging limestone protected it above and the stream curved in sharply ahnost to the foot of the bluff. The only way to reach it was to descend the bluff farther upstream to the field edging the creek, then make a climbing traverse of the shale bank where it was somewhat less steep just upstream of the cave.
They slanted cautiously up the shale, squeezed under an overhang at the top, and stepped out on a hard slaty floor. The room was open on one side and fairly long and deep, but it squeezed in to a waist-high crawl space; only at the edge was there room to stand up. Jack grabbed some gravel, threw it into the dark hole, waited with knife ready. “Nobody home, I guess.” They dropped to hands and knees, crawled inside. “How do you like it?”
“It's swell . . . provided we stand watches. Something could come up the way we did. You've been lucky.”
“Maybe.” Jack felt around in the gloom, dragged out dry branches of thorn bush, blocked the pathway, jamming them under the overhang. “That's my alarm.”
“It wouldn't stop anything that got a whiff of you and really wanted to come in.”
“No. But I would wake up and let it have some rocks in the face. I keep a stack over there. I've got a couple of scare-flares, too.”
“I thought- Didn't you say you had a gun?”
“I didn't say, but I do. But I don't believe in shooting
when you can't see.”
“It looks all right. In fact it looks good, I guess I did myself a favor when I teamed with you.” Rod looked around. “You've had a fire!”
“I've risked it a couple of times, in daylight. I get so tired of raw meat.”
Rod sighed deeply. “I know. Say, do you suppose?”
“It's almost dark. I've never lighted one when it could show. How about roast liver for breakfast, instead? With salt?”
Rod's mouth watered. “You're right, Jack. I do want to get a drink before it is too dark, though. How about coming along and we cover each other?”
“No need. There's a skin back there. Help yourself.”
Rod congratulated himself on having teamed with a perfect housekeeper. The skin was of a small animal, not identifiable when distended with water. Jack had scraped the hide but it was uncured and decidedly unsavory. Rod was not aware that the water tasted bad; he drank deeply, wiped his mouth with his hand and delt at peace.
They did not sleep at once, but sat in the dark and compared notes. Jack's class had come through one day earlier, but with the same instructions. Jack agreed that recall was long overdue.
“I suppose I missed it while I was off my head,” Rod commented. “I don't know how long I was foggy. . . I guess I didn't miss dying by much.”
“That's not it, Rod.”
“Why not?”
“I've been okay and keeping track of the time. There never was any recall.”
“You're sure?”
“How could I miss? The siren can be heard for twenty kilometers, they use a smoke flare by day and a searchlight at night, and the law says they have to keep it up at least a week unless everybody returns. . . which certainly did not happen this time.”
“Maybe we are out of range. Matter of fact- well, I don't know about you, but I'm lost. I admit it”
“I'm not. I'm about four kilometers from where they let my class through; I could show you the spot. Rod, let's face it; something has gone wrong. There is no way of telling how long we are going to be here.” Jack added quiefly, “That's why I thought it was a good idea to team.”
Rod chewed it over, decided it was time to haul out his theory. “Me, too.”
“Yes. Solo is actually safer, for a few days. But if we are stuck here indefinitely, then-”
“Not what I meant, Jack.”
“Huh?”
“Do you know what planet this is?”
“No. I've thought about it, of course. It has to be one of the new list and it is compatible with-”
“I know what one it is.”
“Huh? Which one?”
“It's Earth. Terra herself.”
There was a long silence. At last Jack said, “Rod, are you all right? Are you still feverish?”
“I'm fine, now that I've got a full belly and a big drink of water. Look, Jack, I know it sounds silly, but you just listen and I'll add it up. We're on Earth and I think I know about where, too. I don't think they meant to sound recall; they meant us to figure out where we are and walk out. It's a twist Deacon Matson would love.”
“But-”
“Keep quiet, can't you? Yapping like a girl. Terrestrial planet, right?”
“Yes, but-”
“Stow it and let me talk. G-type star. Planetary rotation same as Earth.”
“But it's not!”
“I made the same mistake. The first night I thought was a week long. But the truth was I was scared out of my skin and that made it seem endless. Now I know better. The rotation matches.”
“No, it doesn't. My watch shows it to be about twenty-six hours.”
“You had better have your watch fixed when we get back. You banged it against a tree or something.”
“But- Oh, go ahead. Keep talking; it's your tape.
“You'll see. Flora compatible. Fauna compatible. I know how they did it and why and where they put us. It's an economy measure.”
“A what?”
“Economy. Too many people complaining about school taxes being too high. Of course, keeping an interstellar gate open is expensive and uranium doesn't grow on trees. I see their point. But Deacon Matson says it is false economy. He says, sure, it's expensive- but that the only thing more expensive than a properly trained explorer or pioneer leader is an improperly trained dead one.
“He told us after class one day,” Rod went on, “that the penny-pinchers wanted to run the practices and tests in selected areas on Earth, but the Deacon claims that the essence of survival in the Outlands is the skill to cope with the unknown. He said that if tests were held on Earth, the candidates would just study up on terrestrial environments. He said any Boy Scout could learn the six basic Earth environments and how to beat them out of books . . . but that it was criminal to call that survival training and then dump a man in an unEarthly environment on his first professional assigninent. He said that it was as ridiculous as just teaching a kid to play chess and then send him out to fight a duel.”
“He's right,” Jack answered. “Commander Benboe talks the same way.”
“Sure he's right. He swore that if they went ahead with this policy this would be the last year he would teach. But they pulled a gimmick on him.”
“How?”
“It's a good one. What the Deacon forgot is that any environment is as unknown as any other if you don't have the slightest idea where you are. So they rigged it so that we could not know. First they shot us to Luna; the Moon gates are always open and that doesn't cost anything extra. Of course that made us think we were in for a long jump. Besides, it confused us; we wouldn't know we were being dumped back into the gravity field we had left- for that was what they did next; they shoved us back on Earth. Where? Africa, I'd say. I think they used the Luna Link to jump us to Witwatersrand Gate outside Johannesburg and there they were all set with a matched-in temporary link to drop us into the bush. Tshaka Memorial Park or some other primitive preserve, on a guess. Everything matches. A wide variety of antelope-type game, carnivores to feed on them- I've seen a couple of lions and-”
“You have?”
“Well, they will do for lions until I get a chance to skin one. But they threw in other dodges to confuse us, too. The sky would give the show away, particularly if we got a look at Luna. So they've hung an overcast over us. You can bet there are cloud generators not far away. Then they threw us one more curve. Were you warned against 'stobor'?”
“Yes”
“See any?”
“Well, I'm not sure what stobor are.”
“Neither am I. Nor any of us, I'll bet. 'Stobor' is the bogeyman, chucked in to keep our pretty little heads busy. There aren't any 'stobor' on Terra so naturally we must be somewhere else. Even a suspicious character like me would be misled by that. In fact, I was. I even picked out something I didn't recognize and called it that, just as they meant me to do.”
“You make it sound logical, Rod.”
“Because it is logical. Once you realize that this is Earth-” He patted the floor of the cave. “-but that they have been trying to keep us from knowing it, everything falls into place. Now here is what we do. I was going to tackle it alone, as soon as I could- I haven't been able to move around much on account of this bad arm- but I decided to take you along, before you got hurt. Here's my plan. I think this is Africa, but it might be South America, or anywhere in the tropics. It does not matter, because we simply follow this creek downstream, keeping our eyes open because there really are hazards; you can get just as dead here as in the Outlands. It may take a week, or a month, but one day well come to a bridge. We'll follow the road it serves until somebody happens along. Once in town we'll check in with the authorities and get them to flip us home . . . and we get our solo test certificates. Simple.”
“You make it sound too simple,” Jack said slowly.
“Oh, we'll have our troubles. But we can do it, now that we know what to do. I didn't want to bring this up before, but do you have salt enough to cure a few kilos of meat? If we did not have to hunt every day, we could travel faster. Or maybe you brought some Kwik-Kure?”
“I did, but-”
“Good!”
“Wait a minute, Rod. That won't do.”
“Huh? We're a team, aren't we?”
“Take it easy. Look, Rod, everything you said is logical, but-”
“No 'buts' about it.”
“It's logical . . . but it's all wrong!”
“Huh? Now, listen, Jack-”
“You listen. You've done all the talking so far.”
“But- Well, all right, say your say.”
“You said that the sky would give it away, so they threw an overcast over the area.
“Yes. That's what they must have done, nights at least. They wouldn't risk natural weather; it might give the show away.
“What I'm trying to tell you is that it did give the show away. It hasn't been overcast every night, though maybe you were in deep forest and missed the few times it has been clear. But I've seen the night sky, Rod. I've seen stars.
“So? Well?”
“They aren't our stars, Rod. I'm sorry.”
Rod chewed his lip. “You probably don't know southern constellations very well?” he suggested.
“I knew the Southern Cross before I could read. These aren't our stars, Rod; I know. There is a pentagon of bright stars above where the sun sets; there is nothing like that to be seen from Earth. And besides, anybody would recognise Luna, if it was there.”
Rod tried to remember what phase the Moon should be in. He gave up, as he had only a vague notion of elapsed time. “Maybe the Moon was down?”
“Not a chance. I didn't see our Moon, Rod, but I saw moons . . two of them, little ones and moving fast, like the moons of Mars.”
“You don't mean this is Mars?” Rod said scornfully.
“Think I'm crazy? Anyhow, the stars from Mars are exactly like the stars from Earth. Rod, what are we jawing about? It was beginning to clear when the sun went down; let's crawl out and have a look. Maybe you'll believe your eyes.
Rod shut up and followed Jack. From inside nothing was visible but dark trees across the stream, but from the edge of the shelf part of the sky could be seen. Rod lookedup and blinked.
“Mind the edge,” Jack warned softly.
Rod did not answer. Framed by the ledge above him and by tree tops across the stream was a pattern of six stars, a lopsided pentagon with a star in its center. The six stars were as bright and unmistakable as the seven stars of Earth's Big Dipper . . . nor did it take a degree in astrography to know that this constellation had never been seen from Terra.
Rod stared while the hard convictions he had formed fell in ruins. He felt lost and alone. The trees across the way seemed frightening. He turned to Jack, his cocky sophistication gone. “You've convinced me,” he said dully. “What do we do now?”
Jack did not answer.
“Well?” Rod insisted. “No good standing here.”
“Rod,” Jack answered, “that star in the middle of the Pentagon-it wasn't there before.”
“Huh? You probably don't remember.”
“No, no, I'm sure! Rod, you know what? We're seeing a nova.”
Rod was unable to arouse the pure joy of scientific discovery; his mind was muddled with reorganizing his personal universe. A mere stellar explosion meant nothing. “Probably one of your moonlets.”
“Not a chance. The moons are big enough to show disks. It's a nova; it has to be. What amazing luck to see one!”
“I don't see anything lucky about it,” Rod answered moodily. “It doesn't mean anything to us. It's probably a hundred light-years away, maybe more.”
“Yes, but doesn't it thrill you?”
“No.” He stooped down and went inside. Jack took another look, then followed.
There was silence, moody on Rod's part. At last Jack said, “Think I'll turn in.”
“I just can't see,” Rod answered irrelevantly, “how I could be so wrong. It was a logical certainty.”
“Forget it,” Jack advised. “My analytics instructor says that all logic is mere tautology. She says it is impossible to learn anything through logic that you did not already know.”
“Then what use is logic?” Rod demanded.
“Ask me an easy one. Look, partner, I'm dead for sleep; I want to turn in.”
“All right. But, Jack, if this isn't Africa- and I've got to admit it isn't- what do we do? They've gone off and left us.”
“Do? We do what we've been doing. Eat, sleep, stay alive. This is a listed planet; if we just keep breathing, someday somebody will show up. It might be just a power breakdown; they may pick us tomorrow.”
“In that case, then-”
“In that case, let's shut up and go to sleep.”
Rod was awakened by heavenly odors. he rolled over, blinked at light streaming under the overhang, managed by great effort to put himself back into the matrix of the day before. Jack, he saw, was squatting by a tiny fire on the edge of the shelf; the wonderful fragrance came from toasting liver.
Rod got to his knees, discovering that he was slightly stiff from having fought dream stobor in his sleep. These nightmare stobor were bug-eyed monsters fit for a planet suddenly strange and threatening. Nevertheless he had had a fine night's sleep and his spirits could not be daunted in the presence of the tantalizing aroma drifting in.
Jack looked up. “I thought you were going to sleep all day. Brush your teeth, comb your hair, take a quick shower, and get on out here. Breakfast is ready.” Jack looked him over again. “Better shave, too.”
Rod grinned and ran his hand over his chin. “You're jealous of my manly beard, youngster. Wait a year or two and you'll find out what a nuisance it is. Shaving, the common cold, and taxes . . . my old man says those are the three eternal problems the race is never going to lick.” Rod felt a twinge at the thought of his parents, a stirring of conscience that he had not thought of them in he could not remember how long. “Can I help, pal?”
“Sit down and grab the salt. This piece is for you.”
“Let's split it.”
“Eat and don't argue. I'll fix me some.” Rod accepted the charred and smoky chunk, tossed it in his hands and blew on it. He looked around for salt. Jack Was slicing a second piece; Rod's eyes passed over the operation then whipped back.
The knife Jack was using was “Colonel Bowie.”
The realization was accompanied by action; Rod's hand darted out and caught Jack's wrist in an anger-hard grip. “You stole my knife!”
Jack did not move. “Rod. . . have you gone crazy?”
“You slugged me and stole my knife.”
Jack made no attempt to fight, nor even to struggle. “You aren't awake yet, Rod. Your knife is on your belt. This is another knife . . . mine.
Rod did not bother to look down. “The one I'm wearing is Lady Macbeth. I mean the knife you're using, Colonel Bowie- my knife.”
“Let go my wrist.”
“Drop it!”
“Rod.. . you can probably make me drop this knife. You're bigger and you've got the jump on me. But yesterday you teamed with me. You're busting that team right now. If you don't let go right away, the team is broken. Then you'll have to kill me . . . because if you don't, I'll trail you. I'll keep on trailing you until I find you asleep. Then you've had it.”
They faced each other across the little fire, eyes locked. Rod breathed hard and tried to think. The evidence was against Jack. But had this little runt tracked him, slugged him, stolen everything he had? It looked like it.
Yet it did not feel like it. He told himself that he could handle the kid if his story did not ring true. He let go Jack's wrist. “All right,” he said angrily, “tell me how you got my knife.”
Jack went on slicing liver. “It's not much of a story and I don't know that it is your knife. But it was not mine to start with- you've seen mine. I use this one as a kitchen knife. Its balance is wrong.
“Colonel Bowie! Balanced wrong? That's the best throwing knife you ever saw!”
“Do you want to hear this? I ran across this hombre in the bush, just as the jackals were getting to him. I don't know what got him-stobor, maybe; he was pretty well clawed and half eaten. He wasn't one of my class, for his face wasn't marked and I could tell. He was carrying a Thunderbolt and-”
“Wait a minute. A Thunderbolt gun?”
“I said so, didn't I? I guess he tried to use it and had no luck. Anyhow, I took what I could use- this knife and a couple of other things; I'll show you. I left the Thunderbolt; the power pack was exhausted and it was junk.”
“Jack, look at me. You're not lying?”
Jack shrugged. “I can take you to the spot. There might not be anything left of him, but the Thunderbolt ought to be there.”
Rod stuck out his hand. “I'm sorry. I jumped to conclusions.”
Jack looked at his hand, did not shake it. “I don't think you are much of a team mate. We had better call it quits.” The knife flipped over, landed at Rod's toes. “Take your toadsticker and be on your way.”
Rod did not pick up the knife. “Don't get sore, Jack. I made an honest mistake.”
“It was a mistake, all right. You didn't trust me and I'm not likely to trust you again. You can't build a team on that.” Jack hesitated. “Finish your breakfast and shove off. It's better that way.”
“Jack, I truly am sorry. I apologize. But it was a mistake anybody could make- you haven't heard my side of the story.”
“You didn't wait to hear my story!”
“So I was wrong, I said I was wrong.” Rod hurriedly told how he had been stripped of his survival gear. “-so naturally, when I saw Colonel Bowie, I assumed that you must have jumped me. That's logical, isn't it?” Jack did not answer; Rod persisted: “Well? Isn't it?”
Jack said slowly, “You used 'logic' again. What you call 'logic.' Rod, you use the stuff the way some people use dope. Why don't you use your head, instead?”
Rod flushed and kept still. Jack went on, “If I had swiped your knife, would I have let you see it? For that matter, would I have teamed with you?”
“No, I guess not. Jack, I jumped at a conclusion and lost my temper.”
“Commander Benboe says,” Jack answered bleakly, “that losing your temper and jumping at conclusions is a one-way ticket to the cemetery.”
Rod looked sheepish. ''Deacon Matson talks the same way.”
“Maybe they're right. So let's not do it again, huh? Every dog gets one bite, but only one.”
Rod looked up, saw Jack's dirty paw stuck out at him. “You mean we're partners again?”
“Shake. I think we had better be; we don't have much choice.” They solemnly shook hands. Then Rod picked up Colonel Bowie, looked at it longingly, and handed it hilt first to Jack.
“I guess it's yours, after all.”
“Huh? Oh, no. I'm glad you've got it back.”
“No,” Rod insisted. “You came by it fair and square.
“Don't be silly, Rod. I've got 'Bluebeard'; that's the knife for me.”
“It's yours. I've got Lady Macbeth.”
Jack frowned. “We're partners, right?”
“Huh? Sure.”
“So We share everything. Bluebeard belongs just as much to you as to me. And Colonel Bowie belongs to both of us. But you are used to it, so it's best for the team for you to wear it. Does that appeal to your lopsided sense of logic?”
“Well. . .”
“So shut up and eat your breakfast. Shall I toast you another slice? That one is cold.”
Rod picked up the scorched chunk of liver, brushed dirt and ashes from it. “This is all right.”
“Throw it in the stream and have a hot piece. Liver won't keep anyhow.”
Comfortably stuffed, and warmed by companionship, Rod stretched out on the shelf after breakfast and stared at the sky. Jack put out the fire and tossed the remnants of their meal downstream. Something broke water and snapped at the liver even as it struck. Jack turned to Rod. “Well, what do we do today?”
“Mmm. . . what we've got on hand ought to be fit to eat tomorrow morning. We don't need to make a kill today.”
“I hunt every second day, usually, since I found this place. Second-day meat is better than first, but by the third . . . phewy!”
“Sure. Well, what do you want to do?”
“Well, let's see. First I'd like to buy a tall, thick chocolate malted milk- or maybe a fruit salad. Both. I'd eat those-”
“Stop it, you're breaking my heart!”
“Then I'd have a hot bath and get all dressed up and flip out to Hollywood and see a couple of good shows. That superspectacle that Dirk Manleigh is starring in and then a good adventure show. After that I'd have another malted milk . . . strawberry, this time, and then-”
“Shut up!'
“You asked me what I wanted to do.”
“Yes, but I expected you to stick to possibilities.”
“Then why didn't you say so? Is that 'logical'? I thought you always used logic?”
“Say, lay off, will you? I apologized.”
“Yeah, you apologized,” Jack admitted darkly. “But I've got some mad I haven't used up yet.”
“Well! Are you the sort of pal who keeps raking up the past?”
“Only when you least expect it. Seriously, Rod, I think we ought to hunt today.”
“But you agreed we didn't need to. It's wrong, and dangerous besides, to make a kill you don't need.”
“I think we ought to hunt people.”
Rod pulled his ear. “Say that again.”
“We ought to spend the day hunting people.”
“Huh? Well, anything for fun I always say. What do we do when we find them? Scalp them, or just shout 'Beaver!'?”
“Scalping is more definite. Rod, how long will we be here?”
“Huh? All we know is that something has gone seriously cockeyed with the recall schedule. You say we've been here three weeks. I would say it was longer but you have kept a notch calendar and I haven't. Therefore . . .” He stopped.
“Therefore what?”
“Therefore nothing. They might have had some technical trouble, which they may clear up and recall us this morning. Deacon Matson and his fun-loving colleagues might have thought it was cute to double the period and not mention it. The Dalai Lama might have bombed the whiskers off the rest of the World and the Gates may be radioactive ruins. Or maybe the three-headed serpent men of the Lesser Magellanic Cloud have landed and have the situation well in hand- for them. When you haven't data, guessing is illogical. We might be here forever.”
Jack nodded. “That's my point.”
“Which point? We know we may be marooned; that's obvious.”
“Rod, a two-man team is just right for a few weeks. But suppose this runs into months? Suppose one of us breaks a leg? Or even if we don't, how long is that thorn-bush alarm going to work? We ought to wall off that path and make this spot accessible only by rope ladder, With somebody here all the time to let the ladder down. We ought to locate a salt lick and think about curing hides and things like that- that water skin I made is getting high already. For a long pull we ought to have at least four people.”
Rod scratched his gaunt ribs thoughtfully. “I know. I thought about it last night, after you jerked the rug out from under my optimistic theory. But I was waiting for you to bring it up.”
“Why?”
“This is your cave. You've got all the fancy equipment, a gun and pills and other stuff I haven't seen. You've got salt. All I've got is a knife- two knives now, thanks to you. I'd look sweet suggesting that you share four ways.”
“We're a team, Rod.'
“Mmm. . . yes. And we both figure the team would be strengthened with a couple of recruits. Well, how many people are there out there?” He gestured at the wall of green across the creek.
“My class put through seventeen boys and eleven girls. Commander Benboe told us there would be four classes in the same test area.
“That's more than the Deacon bothered to tell us. However, my class put through about twenty.”
Jack looked thoughtful. “Around a hundred people, probably.”
“Not counting casualties.”
“Not counting casualties. Maybe two-thirds boys, one-third girls. Plenty of choice, if we can find them.”
“No girls on this team, Jack.”
“What have you got against girls?”
“Me? Nothing at all. Girls are swell on picnics, they are just right on long winter evenings. I'm one of the most enthusiastic supporters of the female race. But for a hitch like this, they are pure poison.”
Jack did not say anything. Rod went on, “Use your head, brother. You get some pretty little darling on this team and we'll have more grief inside than stobor, or such, can give us from outside. Quarrels and petty jealousies and maybe a couple of boys knifing each other. It will be tough enough without that trouble.”
“Well,” Jack answered thoughifully, “suppose the first one we locate is a girl? What are you going to do? Tip your hat and say, 'It's a fine day, ma'am. Now drop dead and don't bother me.'?”
Rod drew a pentagon in the ashes, put a star in the middle, then rubbed it out. “I don't know,” he said slowly. “Let's hope we get our team working before we meet any. And let's hope they set up their own teams.”
“I think we ought to have a policy.”
“I'm clean out of policies. You would just accuse me of trying to be logical. Got any ideas about how to find anybody?”
“Maybe. Somebody has been hunting upstream from here.”
“So? Know who it is?”
“I've seen him only at a distance. Nobody from my class. Half a head shorter than you are, light hair, pink skin- and a bad sunburn. Sound familiar?”
“Could be anybody,” Rod answered, thinking fretfully that the description did sound familiar. “Shall we see if we can pick up some sign of him?”
“I can put him in your lap. But I'm not sure we want him.”
“Why not? If he's lasted this long, he must be competent.”
“Frankly, I don't see how he has. He's noisy when he moves and he has been living in one tree for the past week.”
“Not necessarily bad technique.”
“It is when you drop your bones and leavings out of the tree. It was jackals sniffing around that tipped me off to where he was living.”
“Hmm. . . well, if we don't like him, we don't have to invite him.”
“True.”
Before they set out Jack dug around in the gloomy cave and produced a climbing line. “Rod, could this be yours?”
Rod looked it over. “It's just like the one I had. Why?”
“I got it the way I got Colonel Bowie, off the casualty. If it is not yours, at least it is a replacement.” Jack got another, wrapped it around and over body armor. Rod suspected that Jack had slept in the armor, but he said nothing. If Jack considered such marginal protection more important than agility, that was Jack's business- each to his own methods, as the Deacon would say.
The tree stood in a semi-clearing but Jack brought Rod to it through bushes which came close to the trunk and made the final approach as a belly sneak. Jack pulled Rod's head over and whispered in his ear, “If we lie still for three or four hours, I'm betting that he will either come down or go up.
“Okay. You watch our rear.”
For an hour nothing happened. Rod tried to ignore tiny flies that seemed to be all bite. Silently he shifted position to ward off stiffness and once had to kill a sneeze. At last he said, “Pssst!”
“Yeah, Rod?”
“Where those two big branches meet the trunk, could that be his nest?”
“Maybe.”
“You see a hand sticking out?”
“Where? Uh, I think I see what you see. It might just be leaves.”
“I think it's a hand and I think he is dead; it hasn't moved since we got here.”
“Asleep?”
“Person asleep ordinarily doesn't hold still that long.
I'm going up. Cover me. If that hand moves, yell.”
“You ought not to risk it, Rod.”
“You keep your eyes peeled.” He crept forward..
The owner of the hand was Jimmy Throxton, as Rod had suspected since hearing the description. Jimmy was not dead, but he was unconscious and Rod could not rouse him.
Jim lay in an aerie half natural, half artificial; Rod could see that Jim had cut small branches and improved the triple crotch formed by two limbs and trunk. He lay cradled in this eagle's nest, one hand trailing out.
Getting him down was awkward; he weighed as much as Rod did. Rod put a sling under Jim's armpits and took a turn around a branch, checking the line by friction to lower him- but the hard part was getting Jim out of his musty bed without dropping him.
Halfway down the burden fouled and Jack had to climb and free it. But with much sweat all three reached the ground and Jim was still breathing.
Rod had to carry him. Jack offered to take turns but the disparity in sizes was obvious; Rod said angrily for Jack to cover them, front, rear, all sides; Rod would be helpless if they had the luck to be surprised by one of the pseudo-lions.
The worst part was the climbing traverse over loose shale up to the cave. Rod was fagged from carrying the limp and heavy load more than a kilometer over rough ground; he had to rest before he could tackle it. When he did, Jack said anxiously, “Don't drop him in the drink! It won't be worthwhile fishing him out- I know.”
“So do I. Don't give silly advice.”
“Sorry.”
Rod started up, as much worried for his own hide as for Jim's. He did not know what it was that lived in that stream; he did know that it was hungry. There was a bad time when he reached the spot where the jutting limestone made it necessary to stoop to reach the shelf. He got down as low as possible, attempted it, felt the burden on his back catch on the rock, started to slip.
Jack's hand steadied him and shoved him from behind. Then they were sprawled safe on the shelf and Rod gasped and tried to stop the trembling of his abused muscles.
They bedded Jimmy down and Jack took his pulse. “Fast and thready. I don't think he's going to make it.”
“What medicines do you have?”
“Two of the neosulfas and verdomycin. But I don't know what to give him.”
“Give him all three and pray.
“He might be allergic to one of them.”
“He'll be more allergic to dying. I'll bet he's running six degrees of fever. Come on.”
Rod supported Jim's shoulders, pinched his ear lobe, brought him partly out of coma. Between them they managed to get the capsules into Jim's mouth, got him to drink and wash them down. After that there was nothing they could do but let him rest.
They took turns watching him through the night. About dawn his fever broke, he roused and asked for water. Rod held him while Jack handled the waterskin. Jim drank deeply, then went back to sleep.
They never left him alone. Jack did the nursing and Rod hunted each day, trying to find items young and tender and suited to an invalid's palate. By the second day Jim, although weak and helpless, was able to talk without drifting off to sleep in the middle. Rod returned in the afternoon with the carcass of a small animal which seemed to be a clumsy cross between a cat and a rabbit. He encountered Jack heading down to fill the water skin. “Hi.”
'Hi. I see you had luck. Say, Rod, go easy when you skin it. We need a new water bag. Is it cut much?”
“Not at all. I knocked it over with a rock.”
“Good!”
“How's the patient?”
“Healthier by the minute. I'll be up shortly.”
“Want me to cover you while you fill the skin?”
“I'll be careful. Go up to Jim.”
Rod went up, laid his kill on the shelf, crawled inside. “Feeling better?”
“Swell. I'll wrestle you two falls out of three.”
“Next week. Jack taking good care of you?”
“You bet. Say, Rod, I don't know how to thank you two. If it hadn't been for-”
“Then don't try. You don't owe me anything, ever. And Jack's my partner, so it's right with Jack.”
“Jack is swell.”
“Jack is a good boy. They don't come better. He and I really hit it off.”
Jim looked surprised, opened his mouth, closed it suddenly. “What's the matter?” Rod asked. “Something bite you? Or are you feeling bad again?”
“What,” Jim said slowly, “did you say about Jack?”
“Huh? I said they don't come any better. He and I team up like bacon and eggs. A number-one kid, that boy.”
Jimmy Throxton looked at him. “Rod . . . were you born that stupid? Or did you have to study?”
“Huh?”
“Jack is a girl.”
There followed a long silence. “Well,” said Jim, “close your mouth before something flies in.”
“Jimmy, you're still out of your head.”
“I may be out of my head, but not so I can't tell a girl from a boy. When that day comes, I won't be sick; I'll be dead.”
“But . . .”
Jim shrugged. “Ask her.”
A shadow fell across the opening; Rod turned and saw Jack scrambling up to the shelf. “Fresh water, Jimmy!”
“Thanks, kid.” Jim added to Rod, “Go on, dopy!”
Jack looked from one to the other. “Why the tableau? What are you staring for, Rod?”
“Jack,” he said slowly, “what is your name?”
“Huh? Jack Daudet. I told you that.”
“No, no! What's your full name, your legal name?” Jack looked from Rod to Jimmy's grinning face and back again. “My full name is. . . Jacqueline Marie Daudet- if it's any business of yours. Want to make something of it?”
Rod took a deep breath. “Jacqueline,” he said carefully, “I didn't know. I-”
“You weren't supposed to.”
“Look, if I've said anything to offend you, I surely didn't mean to.”
“You haven't said anything to offend me, you big stupid dear. Except about your knife.”
“I didn't mean that.”
“You mean about girls being poison? Well, did it ever occur to you that maybe boys are pure poison, too? Under these circumstances? No, of course it didn't. But I don't mind your knowing now. . . now that there are three of us.”
“But, Jacqueline-”
“Call me 'Jack,' please.” She twisted her shoulders uncomfortably. “Now that you know, I won't have to wear this beetle case any longer. Turn your backs, both of you.
“Uh . . .” Rod turned his back. Jimmy rolled over, eyes to the wall.
In a few moments Jacqueline said, “Okay.” Rod turned around. In shirt and trousers, without torso armor, her shoulders seemed narrower and she herself was slender now and pleasantly curved. She was scratching her ribs. “I haven't been able to scratch properly since I met you, Rod Walker,” she said accusingly. “Sometimes I almost died.”
“I didn't make you wear it.”
“Suppose I hadn't? Would you have teamed with me?”
“Uh. . . well, it's like this. I . . .” He stopped.
“You see?” She suddenly looked worried. “We're still partners?”
“Huh? Oh, sure, sure!”
“Then shake on it again. This time we shake with Jimmy, too. Right, Jim?”
“You bet, Jack.”
They made a three-cornered handshake. Jack pressed her left hand over the combined fists and said solemnly, “All for one!”
Rod drew Colonel Bowie with his left hand, laid the flat of the blade on the stacked hands. “And one for all!”
“Plus sales tax,” Jimmy added. “Do we get it notarized?”
Jacqueline's eyes were swimming with tears. “Jimmy Throxton,” she said fiercely, “someday I am going to make you take life seriously!”
“I take life seriously,” he objected. “I just don't want life to take me seriously. When you're on borrowed time, you can't afford not to laugh.”
“We're all on borrowed time,” Rod answered him. “Shut up, Jimmy. You talk too much.”
“Look who's preaching! The Decibel Kid himself.”
“Well. . . you ought not to make fun of Jacqueiine. She's done a lot for you.
“She has indeed!”
“Then-”
“'Then' nothing!” Jacqueline said sharply. “My name is 'Jack.' Rod. Forget 'Jacqueline.' If either of you starts treating me with gallantry we'll have all those troubles you warned me about. 'Pure poison' was the expression you used, as I recall.”
“But you can reasonably expect-”
“Are you going to be 'logical' again? Let's be practical instead. Help me skin this beast and make a new water bag.”
The following day Jimmy took over housekeeping and Jack and Rod started hunting together. Jim wanted to come along; he ran into a double veto. There was little advantage in hunting as a threesome whereas Jack and Rod paired off so well that a hunt was never hours of waiting, but merely a matter of finding game. Jack would drive and Rod would kill; they would pick their quarry from the fringe of a herd, Jack would sneak around and panic the animals, usually driving one into Rod's arms.
They still hunted with the knife, even though Jack's gun was a good choice for primitive survival, being an air gun that threw poisoned darts. Since the darts could be recovered and re-envenomed, it was a gun which would last almost indefinitely; she had chosen it for this reason over cartridge or energy guns.
Rod had admired it but decided against hunting with it. “The air pressure might bleed off and let you down.”
“It never has. And you can pump it up again awfully fast.”
“Mmm. . . yes. But if we use it, someday the last dart will be lost no matter how careful we are . . . and that might be the day we would need it bad. We may be here a long time, what do you say we save it?”
“You're the boss, Rod.”
“No, I'm not. We all have equal say.”
“Yes, you are. Jimmy and I agreed on that. Somebody has to boss.”
Hunting took an hour or so every second day; they spent most of daylight hours searching for another team mate, quartering the area and doing it systematically. Once they drove scavengers from a kill which seemed to have been butchered by knife; they followed a spoor from that and determined that it was a human spoor, but were forced by darkness to return to the cave. They tried to pick it up the next day, but it had rained hard in the night; they never found it.
Another time they found ashes of a fire, but Rod judged them to be at least two weeks old.
After a week of fruitless searching they returned one
late afternoon. Jimmy looked up from the fire he had started. “How goes the census?”
'Don't ask,” Rod answered, throwing himself down wearily. “What's for dinner?”
“Raw buck, roast buck, and burned buck. I tried baking some of it in wet clay. It didn't work out too well, but I've got some awfully good baked clay for dessert.”
'Thanks. If that is the word.”
“Jim,” Jack said, “we ought to try to bake pots with that clay.”
“I did. Big crack in my first effort. But I'll get the hang it. Look, children,” he went on, “has it ever occurred to your bright little minds that you might be going about this the wrong way?”
“What's wrong with it?” Rod demanded.
“Nothing . . . if it is exercise you are after. You are and scurrying over the countryside, getting in and nowhere else. Maybe it would be better to sit back and let them come to you.”
“How?”
“Send up a smoke signal.”
“We've discussed that We don't want just anybody and we don't want to advertise where we live. We want people who will strengthen the team.”
“That is what the engineers call a self-defeating criterion. The superior woodsman you want is just the laddy you will never find by hunting for him. He may find you, as you go tramping noisily through the brush, kicking rocks and stepping on twigs and scaring the birds. He may shadow you to see what you are up to. But you won't find him.”
“Rod, there is something to that,” Jack said.
“We found you easily enough,” Rod said to Jim. “Maybe you aren't the high type we need.”
“I wasn't myself at the time,” Jimmy answered blandly. “Wait till I get my strength back and my true nature will show. Ugh-Ugh, the ape man, that's me. Half Neanderthal and half sleek black leopard.” He beat his chest and coughed.
“Are those the proportions? The Neanderthal strain seems dominant.”
“Don't be disrespectful. Remember, you are my debtor.”
“I think you read the backs of those cards. They are getting to be like waffles.” When rescued, Jimmy had had on him a pack of playing cards, and had later explained that they were survival equipment.
“In the first place,” he had said, “if I got lost I could sit down and play solitaire. Pretty soon somebody would come along and-”
“Tell you to play the black ten on the red jack. We've heard that one.”
“Quiet, Rod. In the second place, Jack, I expected to team with old Stoneface here. I can always beat him at cribbage but he doesn't believe it. I figured that during the test I could win all his next year's allowance. Survival tactics.”
Whatever his reasoning, Jimmy had had the cards. The three played a family game each evening at a million plutons a point. Jacqueline stayed more or less even but Rod owed Jimmy several hundred millions. They continued the discussion that evening over their game. Rod was still wary of advertising their hide-out.
“We might burn a smoke signal somewhere, though,” he said thoughtfully. “Then keep watch from a safe spot. Cut 'em, Jim.”
“Consider the relative risks- a five, just what I needed! If you put the fire far enough away to keep this place secret, then it means a trek back and forth at least twice a day. With all that running around you'll use up your luck; one day you won't come back. It's not that I'm fond you, but it would bust up the game. Whose crib?”
“Jack's. But if we burn it close by and in sight, then we sit up here safe and snug. I'll have my back to the wall facing the path, with Jack's phht gun in my lap. If an unfriendly face sticks up- blooie! Long pig for dinner. But if we like them, we cut them into the game.
“Your count.”
“Fifteen-six, fifteen-twelve, a pair, six for jacks and the right jack. That's going to cost you another million, my friend.”
“One of those jacks is a queen,” Rod said darkly.
“Sure enough? You know, it's getting too dark to play. Want to concede?”
They adopted Jim's scheme. It gave more time for cribbage and ran Rod's debt up into billions. The signal fire was kept burning on the shelf at the downstream end, the prevailing wind being such that smoke usually did not blow back into the cave- when the wind did shift was unbearable; they were forced to flee, eyes streaming.
This happened three times in four days. Their advertising had roused no customers and they were all get'ting tired of dragging up dead wood for fuel and green branches for smoke. The third time they fled from smoke Jimmy said, “Rod, I give up. You win. This is not the way to do it.”
“No!”
“Huh? Have a heart, chum. I can't live on smoke- no vitamins. Let's run up a flag instead. I'll contribute my shirt.”
Rod thought about it. “We'll do that.”
“Hey, wait a minute. I was speaking rhetorically. I'm the delicate type. I sunburn easily.”
“You can take it easy and work up a tan. We'll use your shirt as a signal flag. But we'll keep the fire going, too. Not up on the shelf, but down there- on that mud flat, maybe.”
“And have the smoke blow right back into our summer cottage.”
“Well, farther downstream. We'll make a bigger fire and a column of smoke that can be seen a long way. The flag we will put up right over the cave.”
“Thereby inviting eviction proceedings from large, hairy individuals with no feeling for property rights.”
“We took that chance when we decided to use a smoke signal. Let's get busy.”
Rod picked a tall tree on the bluff above. He climbed to where the trunk had thinned down so much that it would hardly take his weight, then spent a tedious hour topping it with his knife. He tied the sleeves of Jim's shirt to it, then worked down, cutting foliage away as he went. Presently the branches became too large to handle with his knife, but the stripped main stem stuck up for several meters; the shirt could be seen for a long distance up and down stream. The shirt caught the wind and billowed; Rod eyed it, tired but satisfied- it was unquestionably a signal flag.
Jimmy and Jacqueline had built a new smudge farther downstream, carrying fire from the shelf for the purpose. Jacqueline still had a few matches and Jim had a pocket torch almost fully charged but the realization that they were marooned caused them to be miserly. Rod went down and joined them. The smoke was enormously greater now that they were not limited in space, and fuel was easier to fetch.
Rod looked them over. Jacqueline's face, sweaty and none too clean to start with, was now black with smoke, while Jimmy's pink skin showed the soot even more. “A couple of pyromaniacs.”
“You ordered smoke,” Jimmy told him. “I plan to make the burning of Rome look like a bonfire. Fetch me a violin and a toga.”
“Violins weren't invented then. Nero played a lyre.”
“Let's not be small. We're getting a nice mushroom cloud effect, don't you think?'
“Come on, Rod,” Jacqueline urged, Wiping her face without improving it. “It's fun!” She dipped a green branch in the stream, threw it on the pyre. A thick cloud of smoke and steam concealed her. “More dry wood, Jimmy.”
“Coming!”
Rod joined in, soon was as dirty and scorched as the other two and having more fun than he had had since the test started. When the sun dropped below the tree tops they at last quit trying to make the fire bigger and better and smokier and reluctantly headed up to their cave. Only then did Rod realize that he had forgotten to remain alert.
Oh well, he assured himself, dangerous animals would avoid a fire.
While they ate they could see the dying fire still sending up smoke. After dinner Jimmy got out his cards, tried to riffle the limp mass. “Anyone interested in a friendly game? The customary small stakes.”
“I'm too tired,” Rod answered. “Just chalk up my usual losses.”
“That's not a sporting attitude. Why, you won a game just last week. How about you, Jack?”
Jacqueline started to answer; Rod suddenly motioned for silence. “Sssh! I heard something.”
The other two froze and silently got out their knives. Rod put Colonel Bowie in his teeth and crawled out to the edge. The pathway was clear and the thorn barricade was undisturbed. He leaned out and looked around, trying to locate the sound.
“Ahoy below!” a voice called out, not loudly. Rod felt himself tense. He glanced back, saw Jimmy moving diagonally over to cover the pathway. Jacqueline had her dart gun and was hurriedly pumping it up.
Rod answered, “Who's there?”
There was a short silence. Then the voice answered, “Bob Baxter and Carmen Garcia. Who are you?”
Rod sighed with relief. “Rod Walker, Jimmy Throxton. And one other, not our class . . Jack Daudet.”
Baxter seemed to think this over. “Uh, can we join you? For tonight, at least?”
“Sure!”
“How can we get down there? Carmen can't climb very well; she's got a bad foot.”
“You're right above us?”
“I think so. I can't see you.”
“Stay there. I'll come up.” Rod turned, grinned at the others. “Company for dinner! Get a fire going, Jim.”
Jimmy clucked mournfully. “And hardly a thing in the house. I should have baked a cake.”
By the time they returned Jimmy had roast meat waitmg. Carmen's semi-crippled condition had delayed them. It was just a sprained ankle but it caused her to crawl up the traverse on her hands, and progress to that point had been slow and painful.
When she realized that the stranger in the party was another woman she burst into tears. Jackie glared at the males, for no cause that Rod could see, then led her into the remote corner of the cave where she herself slept.
There they whispered while Bob Baxter compared notes with Rod and Jim.
Bob and Carmen had had no unusual trouble until Carmen had hurt her ankle two days earlier. . . except for the obvious fact that something had gone wrong and they were stranded. “I lost my grip,” he admitted, “when I realized that they weren't picking us up. But Carmen snapped me out of it. Carmen is a very practical kid.”
'Girls are always the practical ones,” Jimmy agreed. Now take me- I'm the poetical type.”
'Blank verse, I'd say,” Rod suggested.
“Jealousy ill becomes you, Rod. Bob, old bean, can I interest you in another slice? Rare, or well carbonized?”
“Either way. We haven't had much to eat the last couple of days. Boy, does this taste good!”
“My own sauce,” Jimmy said modestly. “I raise my own herbs, you know. First you melt a lump of butter slowly in a pan, then you-”
“Shut up, Jimmy. Bob, do you and Carmen want to team with us? As I see it, we can't count on ever getting back. Therefore we ought to make plans for the future.'
“I think you are right.”
“Rod is always right,” Jimmy agreed. “'Plans for the future-' Hmm, yes. .. Bob, do you and Carmen play cribbage?”
“No”
“Never mind. I'll teach you.”
The decision to keep on burning the smoke signal and thereby to call in as many recruits as possible was never voted on; it formed itself. The next morning Rod intended to bring the matter up but Jimmy and Bob rebuilt the smoke fire from its embers while down to fetch fresh water. Rod let the accomplished fact stand; two girls drifted in separately that day.
Nor was there any formal contract to team nor any selection of a team captain; Rod continued to direct operations and Bob Baxter accepted the arrangement. Rod did not think about it as he was too busy. The problems of food, shelter, and safety for their growing population left him no time to worry about it
The arrival of Bob and Carmen cleaned out the larder; it was necessary to hunt the next day. Bob Baxter offered to go, but Rod decided to take Jackie as usual. “You rest today. Don't let Carmen put her weight on that bad ankle and don't let Jimmy go down alone to tend the fire. He thinks he is well again but he is not.”
“I see that.”
Jack and Rod went out, made their kill quickly. But Rod failed to kill clean and when Jacqueline moved in to help finish the thrashing, wounded buck she was kicked in the ribs. She insisted that she was not hurt; nevertheless her side was sore the following morning and Bob Baxter expressed the opinion that she had cracked a rib.
In the meantime two new mouths to feed had been added, just as Rod found himself with three on the sick list. But one of the new mouths was a big, grinning one belonging to Caroline Mshiyeni; Rod picked her as his hunting partner.
Jackie looked sour. She got Rod aside and whispered, 'You haven't any reason to do this to me. I can hunt. My side is all right, just a little stiff.”
“It is, huh? So it slows you down when I need you. I can't chance it, Jack.”
She glanced at Caroline, stuck out her lip and looked stubborn. Rod said urgently, “Jack, remember what I said about petty jealousies? So help me, you make trouble and I'll paddle you.”
“You aren't big enough!”
“I'll get help. Now, look- are we partners?”
“Well, I thought so.”
“Then be one and don't cause trouble.”
She shrugged. “All right. Don't rub it in- I'll stay home.”
“I want you to do more than that. Take that old bandage of mine- it's around somewhere- and let Bob Baxter strap your ribs.”
“No!”
“Then let Carmen do it. They're both quack doctors, sort of.” He raised his voice. “Ready, Carol?”
“Quiverin' and bristlin'.”
Rod told Caroline how he and Jacqueline hunted, explained what he expected of her. They located, and avoided, two family herds; old bulls were tough and poor eating and attempting to kill anything but the bull was foolishly dangerous. About noon they found a yearling herd upwind; they split and placed themselves cross wind for the kill. Rod waited for Caroline to flush the game, drive it to him.
He continued to wait. He was getting fidgets when Caroline showed up, moving silently. She motioned for him to follow. He did so, hard put to keep up with her and still move quietly. Presently she stopped; he caught up and saw that she had already made a kill. He looked at it and fought down the anger he felt.
Caroline spoke. “Nice tender one, I think. Suit you, Rod?”
He nodded. “Couldn't be better. A clean kill, too. Carol?”
“Huh?”
“I think you are better at this than I am.
“Oh, shucks, it was just luck.” She grinned and looked sheepish.
“I don't believe in luck. Any time you want to lead the hunt, let me know. But be darn sure you let me know.”
She looked at his unsmiling face, said slowly, “By any chance are you bawling me out?”
“You could call it that. I'm saying that any time you want to lead the hunt, you tell me. Don't switch in the middle. Don't ever. I mean it.”
“What's the matter with you, Rod? Getting your feelings hurt just because I got there first- that's silly!”
Rod sighed. “Maybe that's it. Or maybe I don't like having a girl take the kill away from me. But I'm dead sure about one thing: I don't like having a partner on a hunt who can't be depended on. Too many ways to get hurt. I'd rather hunt alone.”
“Maybe I'd rather hunt alone! I don't need any help.”
“I'm sure you don't. Let's forget it, huh, and get this carcass back to camp.”
Caroline did not say anything while they butchered. When they had the waste trimmed away and were ready to pack as much as possible back to the others Rod said, “You lead off. I'll watch behind.”
“Rod?”
“Huh?”
“I'm sorry”
“What? Oh, forget it.”
“I won't ever do it again. Look, I'll tell everybody you made the kill.”
He stopped and put a hand on her arm. “Why tell anybody anything? It's nobody's business how we organize our hunt as long as we bring home the meat.”
“You're still angry with me.”
“I never was angry,” he lied. “I just don't want us to get each other crossed up.”
“Roddie, I'll never cross you up again! Promise.”
Girls stayed in the majority to the end of the week. The cave, comfortable for three, adequate for twice that number, was crowded for the number that was daily accumulating. Rod decided to make it a girls' dormitory and moved the males out into the open on the field at the foot of the path up the shale. The spot was unprotected against weather and animals but it did guard the only access to the cave. Weather was no problem; protection against animals was set up as well as could be managed by organizing a night watch whose duty it was to keep fires burning between the bluff and the creek on the upstream side and in the bottleneck downstream. Rod did not like the arrangements, but they were the best he could do at the time. He sent Bob Baxter and Roy Kilroy downstream to scout for caves and Caroline and Margery Chung upstream for the same purpose. Neither party was successful in the one-day limit he had imposed; the two girls brought back another straggler.
A group of four boys came in a week after Jim's shirt had been requisitioned; it brought the number up to twenty-five and shifted the balance to more boys than girls. The four newcomers could have been classed as men rather than boys, since they were two or three years older than the average. Three of the four classes in this survival-test area had been about to graduate from secondary schools; the fourth class, which included these four, came from Outlands Arts College of Teller University.
“Adult” is a slippery term. Some cultures have placed adult age as low as eleven years, others as high as thirty-five-and some have not recognized any such age as long as an ancestor remamed alive. Rod did not think of these new arrivals as senior to him. There were already a few from Teller U. in the group, but Rod was only vaguely aware Which ones they were- they fitted in. He was too busy with the snowballing problems of his growing colony to worry about their backgrounds on remote Terra.
The four were Jock McGowan, a brawny youth who seemed all hands and feet, his younger brother Bruce, and Chad Ames and Dick Burke. They had arrived late in the day and Rod had not had time to get acquainted, nor was there time the following morning, as a group of four girls and five boys poured in on them unexpectedly. This had increased his administrative problems almost to the breaking point; the cave would hardly sleep four more females. It was necessary to find, or build, more shelter.
Rod went over to the four young men lounging near the cooking fire. He squatted on his heels and asked, “Any of you know anything about building?”
He addressed them all, but the others waited for Jock McGowan to speak. “Some,” Jock admitted. “I reckon I could build anything I wanted to.”
“Nothing hard,” Rod explained. “Just stone walls. Ever tried your hand at masonry?”
“Sure. What of it?”
“Well, here's the idea. We've got to have better living arrangements right away- we've got people pouring out of our ears. The first thing we are going to do is to throw a wall from the bluff to the creek across this flat area. After that we will build huts, but the first thing is a kraal to stop dangerous animals.”
McGowan laughed. “That will be some wall. Have you seen this dingus that looks like an elongated cougar?
One of those babies would go over your wall before you could say 'scat.'“
“I know about them,” Rod admitted, “and I don't like them.” He rubbed the long white scars on his left arm. “They probably could go over any wall we could build. So we'll rig a surprise for them.” He picked up a twig and started drawing in the dirt. “We build the wall and bring it around to here. Then, inside for about six meters, we set up sharpened poles. Anything comes over the wall splits its gut on the poles.”
Jock McGowan looked at the diagram. “Futile.”
“Silly,” agreed his brother.
Rod flushed but answered, “Got a better idea?”
“That's beside the point.”
“Well,” Rod answered slowly, “unless somebody comes down with a better scheme, or unless we find really good caves, we've got to fortify this spot the best we can . . . so we'll do this. I'm going to set the girls to cutting and sharpening stakes. The rest of us will start on the wall. If we tear into it we ought to have a lot of it built before dark. Do you four want to work together? There will be one party collecting rock and another digging clay and making clay mortar. Take your choice.”
Again three of them waited. Jock McGowan lay back and laced his hands under his head. “Sorry. I've got a date to hunt today.”
Rod felt himself turning red. “We don't need a kill today,” he said carefully.
“Nobody asked you, youngster.”
Rod felt the cold tenseness he always felt in a hunt He was uncomfortably aware that an audience had gathered. He tried to keep his voice steady and said, “Maybe I've made a mistake. I-”
“You have.”
“I thought you four had teamed with the rest of us. Well?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“You'll have to fish or cut bait. If you join, you work like anybody else. If not- well, you're welcome to breakfast and stop in again some time. But be on your way. I won't have you lounging around while everybody else, is working.”
Jock McGowan sucked his teeth, dug at a crevice with his tongue. His hands were still locked back of his head. “What you don't understand, sonny boy, is that nobody gives the McGowans orders. Nobody. Right, Bruce?”
“Right, Jock.”
“Right, Chad? Dick?”
The other two grunted approval. McGowan continued to stare up at the sky. “So,” he said softly, “I go where I want to go and stay as long as I like. The question is not whether we are going to join up with you, but what ones am going to let team with us. But not you, sonny boy; you are still wet behind your ears.
“Get up and get Qut of here!” Rod started to stand up. He was wearing Colonel Bowie, as always, but he did not reach for it. He began to straighten up from squatting.
Jock McGowan's eyes flicked toward his brother. Rod was hit low. . . and found himself flat on his face with his breath knocked out. He felt the sharp kiss of a knife against his ribs; he held still. Bruce called out, “How about it, Jock?”
Rod could not see Jock McGowan. But he heard him answer, “Just keep him there.”
“Right, Jock.”
Jock McGowan was wearing both gun and knife. Rod now heard him say, “Anybody want to dance? Any trouble out of the rest of you lugs?”
Rod still could not see Jock, but he could figure from the naked, startled expressions of a dozen others that McGowan must have rolled to his feet and covered them with his gun. Everybody in camp carried knives; most had guns as well and Rod could see that Roy Kilroy was wearing his- although most guns were kept when not in use in the cave in a little arsenal which Carmen superintended.
But neither guns nor knives were of use; it had happened too fast, shifting from wordy wrangling to violence with no warning. Rod could see none of his special friends from where he was; those whom he could see did not seem disposed to risk death to rescue him.
Jock McGowan said briskly, “Chad- Dick- got 'em all covered?”
“Right, Skipper.”
“Keep 'em that way while I take care of this cholo.” His hairy legs appeared in front of Rod's face. “Pulled his teeth, Bruce?”
“Not yet.”
“I'll do it. Roll over, sonny boy, and let me at your knife. Let him turn over, Bruce.”
Bruce McGowan eased up on Rod and Jock bent down. As he reached for Rod's knife a tiny steel flower blossomed in Jock's side below his ribs. Rod heard nothing, not even the small sound it must have made when it struck. Jock straightened up with a shriek, clutched at his side.
Bruce yelled, Jock! What's the matter?”
“They got me.” He crumpled to the ground like loose clothing.
Rod still had a man with a knife on his back but the moment was enough; he rolled and grabbed in one violent movement and the situation was reversed, with Bruce's right wrist locked in Rod's fist, with Colonel Bowie threatening Bruce's face.
A loud contralto voice sang out, “Take it easy down there! We got you covered.”
Rod glanced up. Caroline stood on the shelf at the top of the path to the cave, with a rifle at her shoulder. At the downstream end of the shelf Jacqueline sat with her little dart gun in her lap; she was frantically pumping up again. She raised it, drew a bead on some one past Rod's shoulder.
Rod called out, “Don't shoot!” He looked around. “Drop it, you two!”
Chad Ames and Dick Burke dropped their guns. Rod added, “Roy! Grant Cowper! Gather up their toys. Get their knives, too.” He turned back to Bruce McGowan, pricked him under the chin. “Let's have your knife.” Bruce turned it loose; Rod took it and got to his feet.
Everyone who had been up in the cave was swarming down, Caroline in the lead. Jock McGowan was writhing on the ground, face turned blue and gasping in the sort of paralysis induced by the poison used on darts. Bob Baxter hurried up, glanced at him, then said to Rod, “I'll take care of that cut in your ribs in a moment.” He bent over Jock McGowan.
Caroline said indignantly, “You aren't going to try to save him?”
“Of course.”
“Why? Let's chuck him in the stream.”
Baxter glanced at Rod. Rod felt a strong urge to order Caroline's suggestion carried out. But he answered, “Do what you can for him, Bob. Where's Jack? Jack- you've got antidote for your darts, haven't you? Get it.”
Jacqueline looked scornfully at the figure on the ground. “What for? He's not hurt.”
“Huh?”
“Just a pin prick. A practice dart- that's all I keep in Betsey. My hunting darts are put away so that nobody can hurt themselves- and I didn't have time to get them.”
She prodded Jock with a toe. “He's not poisoned. He's scaring himself to death.”
Caroline chortled and waved the rifle she carried. “And this one is empty. Not even a good club.”
Baxter said to Jackie, “Are you sure? The reactions look typical.”
“Sure I'm sure! See the mark on the end sticking out? A target dart.”
Baxter leaned over his patient, started slapping his face. “Snap out of it, McGowan! Stand up. I want to get that dart out of you.”
McGowan groaned and managed to stand. Baxter took the dart between thumb and forefinger, jerked it free; Jock yelled. Baxter slapped him again. “Don't you faint on me,” he growled. 'you're lucky. Let it drain and you'll be all right.” He turned to Rod. “You're next.”
“Huh? There's nothing the matter with me.”
“That stuff on your ribs is paint, I suppose.” He looked around. “Carmen, get my kit.”
“I brought it down.”
“Good. Rod, sit down and lean forward. This is going to hurt a little.”
It did hurt. Rod tried to chat to avoid showing that he minded it. “Carol,” he asked, “I don't see how you and Jackie worked out a plan so fast. That was smooth.”
“Huh? We didn't work out a plan; we both just did what we could and did it fast.” She turned to Jacqueline and gave her a clap on the shoulder that nearly knocked her over. “This kid is solid, Roddie, solid!”
Jacqueline recovered, looked pleased and tried not to show it. “Aw, Carol!”
“Anyway I thank you both.”
“A pleasure. I wish that pea shooter had been loaded. Rod, what are you going to do with them?”
“Well . . . ummph!”
“Whoops!” said Baxter, behind him. “I said it was going to hurt. I had better put one more clip in. I'd like to put a dressing on that, but we can't, so you lay off heavy work for a while and sleep on your stomach.”
“Unh!” said Rod.
“That's the last. You can get up now. Take it easy and give it a chance to scab.”
“I still think,” Caroline insisted, “that we ought to make them swim the creek. We could make bets on whether or not any of 'em make it across.”
“Carol, you're uncivilized.”
“I never claimed to be civilized. But I know which end wags and which end bites.”
Rod ignored her and went to look at the prisoners. Roy Kilroy had caused them to lie down one on top of the other; it rendered them undignified and helpless. “Let them sit up.”
Kilroy and Grant Cowper had been guarding them. Cowper said, “You heard the Captain. Sit up.” They unsnarled and sat up, looking glum.
Rod looked at Jock McGowan. “What do you think we ought to do with you?”
McGowan said nothing. The puncture in his side was oozing blood and he was pale. Rod said slowly, “Some think we ought to chuck you in the stream. That's the same as condemning you to death- but if we are going to, we ought to shoot you or hang you. I don't favor letting anybody be eaten alive. Should we hang you?”
Bruce McGowan blurted out, “We haven't done anything.”
“No. But you sure tried. You aren't safe to have around other people.”
Somebody called out, “Oh, let's shoot them and get it over with!” Rod ignored it. Grant Cowper came close to Rod and said, “We ought to vote on this. They ought to have a trial.”
Rod shook his head. “No.” He went on to the prisoners,
I don't favor punishing you- this is personal. But we can't risk having you around either.” He turned to Cowper. “Give them their knives.”
“Rod? You're not going to fight them?”
“Of course not.” He turned back. “You can have your knives; we're keeping your guns. When we turn you loose, head downstream and keep going. Keep going for at least a week. If you ever show your faces again, you won't get a chance to explain. Understand me?'
Jock McGowan nodded. Dick Burke gulped and said, “But turning us out with just knives is the same as killing us.
“Nonsense! No guns. And remember, if you turn back this way, even to hunt, it's once too many. There may be somebody trailing you- with a gun.
“Loaded this time!” added Caroline. “Hey, Roddie, I want that job. Can I? Please?”
“Shut up, Carol. Roy, you and Grant start them on their way.”
As exiles and guards, plus sightseers, moved off they ran into Jimmy Throxton coming back into camp. He stopped and stared. “What's the procession? Rod what have you done to your ribs, boy? Scratching yourself again?”
Several people tried to tell him at once. He got the gist of it and shook his head mournfully. “And there I was, good as gold, looking for pretty rocks for our garden wall. Every time there's a party people forget to ask me. Discrimination.”
“Stow it, Jim. It's not funny.”
“That's what I said. It's discrimination.”
Rod got the group started on the wall with an hour or more of daylight wasted. He tried to work on the wall despite Bob Baxter's medical orders, but found that he was not up to it; not only was his wound painful but also he felt shaky with reaction.
Grant Cowper looked him up during the noon break. “Skipper, can I talk with you? Privately?”
Rod moved aside with him. “What's on your mind?”
“Mmm . . . Rod, you were lucky this morning. You know that, don't you? No offense intended.”
“Sure, I know. What about it?”
“Uh, do you know why you had trouble?”
“What? Of course I know- now. I trusted somebody when I should not have.”
Cowper shook his head. “Not at all. Rod, what do you know about theory of government?”
Rod looked surprised. “I've had the usual civics courses. Why?”
“I doubt if I've mentioned it, but the course I'm majoring in at Teller U. is colonial administration. One thing we study is how authority comes about in human society and how it is maintained. I'm not criticizing but to be blunt, you almost lost your life because you've never studied such things.”
Rod felt annoyed. “What are you driving at?”
“Take it easy. But the fact remains that you didn't have any authority. McGowan knew it and wouldn't take orders. Everybody else knew it, too. When it came to a showdown, nobody knew whether to back you up or not. Because you don't have a milligram of real authority.”
“Just a moment! Are you saying I'm not leader of this team?”
“You are de facto leader, no doubt about it. But you've never been elected to the job. That's your weakness.”
Rod chewed this over. “I know,” he said slowly. “It's just that we have been so confounded busy.”
“Sure, I know. I'd be the last person to criticize. But a captain ought to be properly elected.”
Rod sighed. “I meant to hold an election but I thought getting the wall built was more urgent. All right, let's call them together.”
“Oh, you don't need to do it this minute.”
“Why not? The sooner the better, apparently.”
“Tonight, when it's too dark to work, is soon enough.”
“Well . . . okay.”
When they stopped for supper Rod announced that there would be an organization and planning meeting. No one seemed surprised, although he himself had mentioned it to no one. He felt annoyed and had to remind himself that there was nothing secret about it; Grant had been under no obligation to keep it quiet. He set guards and fire tenders, then came back into the circle of firelight and called out, “Quiet, everybody! Let's get started. If you guys on watch can't hear, be sure to speak up” He hesitated. “We're going to hold an election. Somebody pointed out that I never have been elected captain of this survival team. Well, if any of you have your noses out of joint, I'm sorry. I was doing the best I could. But you are entitled to elect a captain. All right, any nominations?”
Jiminy Throxton shouted, “I nominate Rod Walker!” Caroline's voice answered, “I second it! Move the nominations be closed.”
Rod said hastily, “Carol, your motion is out of order.”
“Why?”
Before he could answer Roy Kilroy spoke up. “Rod, can I have the floor a moment? Privileged question.”
Rod turned, saw that Roy was squatting beside Grant Cowper. “Sure. State your question.”
“Matter of procedure. The first thing is to elect a temporary chairman.”
Rod thought quickly. “I guess you're right. Jimmy, your nomination is thrown out. Nominations for temporary chairman are in order.”
“Rod Walker for temporary chairman!”
“Oh, shut up, Jimmy! I don't want to be temporary chairman.”
Roy Kilroy was elected. He took the imaginary gavel and announced, “The chair recognizes Brother Cowper for a statement of aims and purposes of this meeting.”
Jimmy Throxton called out, “What do we want any speeches for? Let's elect Rod and go to bed. I'm tired- and I've got a two-hour watch coming up.”
“Out of order. The chair recognizes Grant Cowper.” Cowper stood up. The firelight caught his handsome features and curly, short beard. Rod rubbed the scraggly growth on his own chin and wished that he looked like Cowper. The young man was dressed only in walking shorts and soft bush shoes but he carried himself with the easy dignity of a distinguished speaker before some important body. “Friends,” he said, “brothers and sisters, we are gathered here tonight not to elect a survival-team captain, but to found a new nation.”
He paused to let the idea sink in. “You know the situation we are in. We fervently hope to be rescued, none more so than I. I will even go so far as to say that I think we will be rescued . . . eventually. But we have no way of knowing, we have no data on which to base an intelligent guess, as to when we will be rescued.
“It might be tomorrow . . . it might be our descendants a thousand years from now.” He said the last very solemnly.
“But when the main body of our great race re-establishes contact with us, it is up to us, this little group here tonight, whether they find a civilized society or flea-bitten animals without language, without arts, with the light of reason grown dim . . . or no survivors at all, nothing but bones picked clean.”
“Not mine!” called out Caroline. Kilroy gave her a dirty look and called for order.
“Not yours, Caroline,” Cowper agreed gravely. “Nor mine. Not any of us. Because tonight we will take the step that will keep this colony alive. We are poor in things; we will make what we need. We are rich in knowledge; among us we hold the basic knowledge of our great race. We must preserve it . . . we will!”
Caroline cut through Cowper's dramatic pause with a stage whisper. “Talks pretty, doesn't he? Maybe I'll marry him.”
He did not try to fit this heckling into his speech. “What is the prime knowledge acquired by our race? That without which the rest is useless? What flame must we guard like vestal virgins?”
Some one called out, “Fire.” Cowper shook his head.
“Writing!”
“The decimal system.”
“Atomics!”
“The wheel, of course.
“No, none of those. They are all important, but they are not the keystone. The greatest invention of mankind is government. It is also the hardest of all. More individualistic than cats, nevertheless we have learned to cooperate more efficiently than ants or bees or termites. Wilder, bloodier, and more deadly than sharks, we have learned to live together as peacefully as lambs. But these things are not easy. That is why that which we do tonight will decide our future . . . and perhaps the future of our children, our children's children, our descendants far into the womb of time. We are not picking a temporary survival leader; we are setting up a government. We must do it with care. We must pick a chief executive for our new nation, a mayor of our city-state. But we must draw up a constitution, sign articles binding us together. We must organize and plan.”
“Hear, hear!”
“Bravo!”
“We must establish law, appoint judges, arrange for orderly administration of our code. Take for example, this morning-” Cowper turned to Rod and gave him a friendly smile. “Nothing personal, Rod, you understand that. I think you acted with wisdom and I was happy that you tempered justice with mercy. Yet no one could have criticized if you had yielded to your impulse and killed all four of those, uh . . . anti-social individuals. But justice should not be subject to the whims of a dictator. We can't stake our lives on your temper . . . good or bad. You see that, don't you?”
Rod did not answer He felt that he was being accused of bad temper, of being a tyrant and dictator, of being a danger to the group. But he could not put his finger on it. Grant Cowper's remarks had been friendly . . . yet they felt intensely personal and critical.
Cowper insisted on an answer. “You do see that, Rod? Don't you? You don't want to continue to have absolute power over the lives and persons of our community? You don't want that? Do you?” He waited.
“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure! I mean, I agree with you.”
“Good! I was sure you would understand. And I must ay that I think you have done a very good job in getting us together. I don't agree with any who have criticized you. You were doing your best and we should let bygones be bygones.” Cowper grinned that friendly grin and Rod felt as if he were being smothered with kisses.
Cowper turned to Kilroy. “That's all I have to say, Mr. Chairman.” He flashed his grin and added as he sat down, “Sorry I talked so long, folks. I had to get it off my chest.”
Kilroy clapped his hands once. “The chair will entertam nominations for- Hey, Grant, if we don't call it 'captain,' then what should we call it?”
“Mmm . . .” Cowper said judicially. “'President' seems a little pompous. I think 'mayor' would be about right-mayor of our city-state, our village.”
“The chair will entertain nominations for mayor.
“Hey!” demanded Jimmy Throxton. “Doesn't anybody else get to shoot off his face?”
“Out of order.”
“No,” Cowper objected, “I don't think you should rule Jimmy out of order, Roy. Anyone who has something to contribute should be encouraged to speak. We mustn't act hastily.”
“Okay, Throxton, speak your piece.”
“Oh, I didn't want to sound off. I just didn't like the squeeze play.”
“All right, the chair stands corrected. Anybody else? If not, we will entertain-”
“One moment, Mr. Chairman!”
Rod saw that it was Arthur Nielsen, one of the Teller University group. He managed to look neat even in these circumstances but he had strayed into camp bereft of all equipment, without even a knife. He had been quite hungry.
Kilroy looked at him. “You want to talk, Waxie?”
“Nielsen is the name. Or Arthur. As you know. Yes.”
“Okay. Keep it short.”
“I shall keep it as short as circumstances permit. Fellow associates, we have here a unique opportunity, probably one which has not occurred before in history. As Cowper pointed out, we must proceed with care. But, already we have set out on the wrong foot. Our object should be to found the first truly scientific community. Yet what do I find? You are proposing to select an executive by counting noses! Leaders should not be chosen by popular whim; they should be determined by rigorous scientific criteria. Once selected, those leaders must have full scientific freedom to direct the bio-group in accordance with natural law, unhampered by such artificial anachronisms as statutes, constitutions, and courts of law. We have here an adequate supply of healthy females; we have the means to breed scientifically a new race, a super race, a race which, if I may say so-”
A handful of mud struck Nielsen in the chest; he stopped suddenly. “I saw who did that!” he said angrily. Just the sort of nincompoop who always-”
“Order, order, please!” Kilroy shouted. “No mudsling or I'll appoint a squad of sergeants-at-arms. Are you through, Waxie?”
“I was just getting started.”
“Just a moment,” put in Cowper. “Point of order Mr. Chairman. Arthur has a right to be heard. But I think he speaking before the wrong body. We're going to have a constitutional committee, I'm sure. He should present his arguments to them. Then, if we like them, we can adopt his ideas.”
“You're right, Grant. Sit down, Waxie.”
“Huh? I appeal!”
Roy Kilroy said briskly, “The chair has ruled this out of order at this time and the speaker has appealed to the house, a priority motion not debatable. All in favor of supporting the chair's ruling, which is for Waxie to shut up, make it known by saying 'Aye.'“
There was a shouted chorus of assent. “Opposed: 'No.' Sit down, Waxie.”
Kilroy looked around. “Anybody else?”
“Yes”
“I can't see. Who is it?”
“Bill Kennedy, Ponce de Leon class. I don't agree with Nielsen except on one point: we are fiddling around with the wrong things. Sure, we need a group captain but, aside from whatever it takes to eat, we shouldn't think about anything but how to get back. I don't want a scientific society; I'd settle for a hot bath and decent food.”
There was scattered applause. The chairman said, “I'd like a bath, too . . . and I'd fight anybody for a dish of cornflakes. But, Bill, how do you suggest that we go about it?”
“Huh? We set up a crash-priority project and build a gate. Everybody works on it.”
There was silence, then several talked at once: “Crazy! No uranium.” - “We might find uranium.” - “Where do we get the tools? Shucks, I don't even have a screwdriver.” - “But where are we?” - “It is just a matter of-”
“Quiet!” yelled Kilroy. “Bill, do you know how to build a gate?”
“No”
“I doubt if anybody does.”
“That's a defeatist attitude. Surely some of you educated blokes from Teller have studied the subject. You should get together, pool what you know, and put us to work. Sure, it may take a long time. But that's what we ought to do.”
Cowper said, just a minute, Roy. Bill, I don't dispute what you say; every idea should be explored. We're bound to set up a planning committee. Maybe we had better elect a mayor, or a captain, or whatever you want to call him-and then dig into your scheme when we can discuss it in detail. I think it has merit and should be discussed at length. What do you think?”
“Why, sure, Grant. Let's get on with the election. I just didn't want that silly stuff about breeding a superman to be the last word.”
“Mr. Chairman! I protest-”
“Shut up, Waxie. Are you ready with nominations for mayor? If there is no objection, the chair rules debate closed and will entertain nominations.”
“I nominate Grant Cowper!”
“Second!”
“I second the nomination.”
“Okay, I third it!”
“Let's make it unanimous! Question, question!”
Jimmy Throxton's voice cut through the shouting, “I NOMINATE ROD WALKER!”
Bob Baxter stood up. “Mr. Chairman?”
“Quiet, everybody. Mr. Baxter.”
“I second Rod Walker.”
“Okay. Two nominations, Grant Cowper and Rod Walker. Are there any more?”
There was a brief silence. Then Rod spoke up. “Just a second, Roy.” He found that his voice was trembling and he took two deep breaths before he went on. “I don't want it. I've had all the grief I want for a while and I'd like a rest. Thanks anyhow, Bob. Thanks, Jimmy.”
“Any further nominations?”
“Just a sec, Roy . . . point of personal privilege.” Grant Cowper stood up. “Rod, I know how you feel. Nobody in his right mind seeks public office . . . except as a duty, willingness to serve. If you withdraw, I'm going to exercise the same privilege; I don't want the headaches any more than you do.”
“Now wait a minute, Grant. You-”
“You wait a minute. I don't think either one of us should withdraw; we ought to perform any duty that is handed to us, just as we stand a night watch when it's our turn. But I think we ought to have more nominations.” He looked around. “Since that mix-up this morning we have as many girls as men . . yet both of the candidates are male. That's not right. Uh, Mr. Chairman, I nominate Caroline Mshiyeni.”
“Huh? Hey, Grant, don't be silly. I'd look good as a lady mayoress, wouldn't I? Anyhow, I'm for Roddie.”
“That's your privilege, Caroline. But you ought to let yourself be placed before the body, just like Rod and myself.”
“Nobody's going to vote for me!”
“That's where you're wrong. I'm going to vote for you. But we still ought to have more candidates.”
“Three nominations before the house,” Kilroy announced. “Any more? If not, I declare the-”
“Mr. Chairman!”
“Huh? Okay, Waxie, you want to nominate somebody?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Me”
“You want to nominate yourself?”
“I certainly do. What's funny about that? I am running on a platform of strict scientific government. I want the rational minds in this group to have someone to vote for.”
Kilroy looked puzzled. “I'm not sure that is correct parliamentary procedure. I'm afraid I'll have to over-”
“Never mind, never mind!” Caroline chortled. “I nominate him. But I'm going to vote for Roddie,” she added.
Kilroy sighed. “Okay, four candidates. I guess we'll have to have a show of hands. We don't have anything for ballots.”
Bob Baxter stood up. “Objection, Mr. Chairman. I call for a secret ballot. We can find some way to do it.”
A way was found. Pebbles would signify Rod, a bare twig was a note for Cowper, a green leaf meant Caroline, while one of Jimmy's ceramic attempts was offered as a ballot box. “How about Nielsen?” Kilroy asked.
Jimmy spoke up. “Uh, maybe this would do: I made another pot the same time I made this one, only it busted. Ill get chunks of it and all the crackpots are votes for Waxie.”
“Mr. Chairman, I resent the insinua-”
“Save it, Waxie. Pieces of baked clay for you, pebbles for Walker, twigs for Grant, leaves for Carol. Get your votes, folks, then file past and drop them in the ballot box. Shorty, you and Margery act as tellers.”
The tellers solemnly counted the ballots by firelight. There were five votes for Rod, one for Nielsen, none for Caroline, and twenty-two for Cowper. Rod shook hands with Cowper and faded back into the darkness so that no one would see his face. Caroline looked at the results and said, “Hey, Grant! You promised to vote for me. What happened? Did you vote for yourself? Huh? How about that?”
Rod said nothing. He had voted for Cowper and was certain that the new mayor had not returned the compliment . . . he was sure who his five friends were. Dog take it!-he had seen it coming; why hadn't Grant let him bow out?
Grant ignored Caroline's comment. He briskly assumed the chair and said, “Thank you. Thank you all. know you want to get to sleep, so I will limit myself tonight to appointing a few committees-”
Rod did not get to sleep at once. He told himself that there was no disgrace in losing an election- shucks, hadn't his old man lost the time he had run for community corporation board? He told himself, too, that trying to ride herd on those apes was enough to drive a man crazy and he was well out of it- he had never wanted the job! Nevertheless there was a lump in his middle and a deep sense of personal failure.
It seemed that he had just gone to sleep . . . his father was looking at him saying, “You know we are proud of you, son. Still, if you had had the foresight to-” when someone touched his arm.
He was awake, alert, and had Colonel Bowie out at once.
“Put away that toothpick,” Jimmy whispered, “before you hurt somebody. Me, I mean.”
“What's up?”
“I'm up, I've. got the fire watch. You're about to be, because we are holding a session of the inner sanctum.”
“Huh?”
“Shut up and come along. Keep quiet, people are asleep.”
The inner sanctum turned out to be Jimmy, Caroline, Jacqueline, Bob Baxter, and Carmen Garcia. They gathered inside the ring of fire but as far from the sleepers as possible. Rod looked around at his friends.
“What's this all about?”
“It's about this,” Jimmy said seriously. “You're our Captain. And we like that election as much as I like a crooked deck of cards.”
“That's right,” agreed Caroline. “All that fancy talk!”
“Huh? Everybody got to talk. Everybody got to vote.”
“Yes,” agreed Baxter. “Yes . . . and no.”
“It was all proper. I have no kick.”
“I didn't expect you to kick, Rod. Nevertheless well, I don't know how much politicking you've seen, Rod. I haven't seen much myself, except in church matters and we Quakers don't do things that way; we wait until the Spirit moves. But, despite all the rigamarole, that was a slick piece of railroading. This morning you would have been elected overwhelmingly; tonight you did not stand a chance.”
“The point is,” Jimmy put in, “do we stand for it?”
“What can we do?”
“What can we do? We don't have to stay here. We've still got our own group; we can walk out and find another place . . . a bigger cave maybe.”
'Yes, sir!” agreed Caroline. “Right tonight.”
Rod thought about it. The idea was tempting; they didn't need the others . . . guys like Nielsen- and Cowper. The discovery that his friends were loyal to him, loyal to the extent that they would consider exile rather than let him down choked him up. He turned to Jacqueline. “How about you, Jackie?”
“We're partners, Rod. Always.”
“Bob- do you want to do this? You and Carmen?”
“Yes. Well . .
“'Well' what?”
“Rod, we're sticking with you. This election is all very well- but you took us in when we needed it and teamed with us. We'll never forget it. Furthermore I think that you make a sounder team captain than Cowper is likely to make. But there is one thing.”
“Yes.”
“If you decide that we leave, Carmen and I will appreciate it if you put it off a day.”
“Why?” demanded Caroline. “Now is the time.”
“Well- they've set this up as a formal colony, a village with a mayor. Everybody knows that a regularly elected mayor can perform weddings.”
“Oh!” said Caroline. “Pardon my big mouth.”
“Carmen and I can take care of the religious end- it's not very complicated in our church. But, just in case we ever are rescued, we would like it better and our folks would like it if the civil requirements were all perfectly regular and legal. You see?”
Rod nodded. “I see.”
“But if you say to leave tonight . . .”
“I don't,” Rod answered with sudden decision. “We'll stay and get you two properly married. Then-”
“Then we all shove off in a shower of rice,” Caroline finished.
“Then we'll see. Cowper may turn out to be a good mayor. We won't leave just because I lost an election.” He looked around at their faces. “But . . . but I certainly do thank you. I-”
He could not go on. Carmen stepped forward and kissed him quickly. “Goodnight, Rod. Thanks.”