“Hey, what about a sundial? There’s that flat place at the top of the rock just below the sentry post.”
“Yeah, and how do we time it?”
“Hell, you’re the mechanical engineer. You figure it out. One one-hundred, two one-hundred, three one-hundred is still a second even here.”
A commotion midafternoon brought fifteen angry women and one bloody-nosed Arnie to Mitford’s office. Noticing that all the women had wet hair, it didn’t take him more than a minute to figure out that Arnie had been peeping again.
“He didn’t stay warned off, Mitford,” an irate Sandy Areson said, pinching the man again. “He’s a dirty pervert, is what he is. And with him doing latrine duty only makes it easier for him to know when we’re going to bathe. Chain him to a rock or by God, I’ll sharpen my knife and…”
Mitford had begun to chuckle, as he’d had a sudden inspiration. “I think we can provide restraints for our little Arnold Sherman. And provide an object lesson at the same time. Jack Lemass, front and center,” the Sergeant added in a bellow.
“Yo!” And a man who had been carving at various types of the woods available in the nearby copse loped over. “You rang?”
Most people were in good spirits, Mitford decided, and proving ingenious in what they could contrive. They didn’t have nails, but Jack Lemass, who’d been out early in the morning on a hunting party, was sure they could fashion chairs and tables and other useful items from the larger trees.
“Yeah, d’you think you could construct me a pair of stocks?”
“Stocks?” Jack poked his head forward on his neck in surprise.
“Stocks?” Sandy exclaimed and then burst out laughing. “Hey, that’d be great. And we could belt him with rotten eggs—if we could find any rotten eggs.” She gave the cowering Arnie another swat but she, and the other women, began to grin in happy anticipation of his future discomfort. “Make ’em as uncomfortable as possible, will ya, Jack?”
Jack went through a little routine of pretending to measure the quivering Arnie so that he moaned in apprehension.
“Okay, ladies, as you were,” Mitford said. “Sorry you’ve been pestered.”
“Thanks, sarge,” Sandy said and took his hint, shooing the women out of the “office.” “We’ve got work to do, too, ladies.”
“Better yet, Jack,” Mitford said, “take him with you to cut the wood, Jack, and make him help you build it. To fit him because I think he’ll be in the stocks a lot. Won’t you, Arnie?”
“I was only looking,” Arnie whined in self-defense. “I wasn’t doing more than that.”
“That’s enough. Shut your face and be damned glad I don’t get Jack to put a stake and whip you at it.”
“You wouldn’t whip me?” His voice cracked in terror and his whole body trembled. “You’re human, you’re American. You can’t,” and Arnie ended on a note of pure panic.
“Be grateful then, because the next step for someone like you, Arnie,” Mitford said, raising his voice loud enough for everyone working the area to hear, “is being staked out on a field for the scavengers. And don’t think it can’t happen. It can!”
Jack’s eyebrows were raised almost to his nonexistent hairline and he whistled softly.
“Okay, Arnie, we go walkies now.”
Old-fashioned stocks wouldn’t really hurt a man, or a woman, Mitford thought as he picked up another slate to record their construction as a deterrent. But it would prove his administration had teeth and wasn’t afraid to bite. So far, people were far more interested in how they could turn their skills to improving their living quarters. And that was what settling was all about. Living off the land you were on and getting the best you could.
Late that evening, long after the second serving of the evening meal, two more patrols reported in: one had found rock salt, which could only improve the taste of food, and the other—geology and mining types—had located deposits of iron and copper and had brought back samples. Murph had bent his ear about all they could do with iron and copper. So Mitford said that he’d organize a squad to help Murph mine and refine. Murph went off, muttering happily to himself.
“Every day in every way, we are getting better and better,” Mitford muttered to himself, able to see one more step in their adaptation. Another few months and no one would recognize themselves as the dispirited dregs they’d been waking up less than a week ago.
* * *
WHEN NIGHT CAME, KRIS WAS ROUSED WITH THE others who had rested. Zainal showed the Doyles and Aarens how he had manipulated the lock with his knife blade.
“The ol’ credit card trick, huh?” Lenny remarked, then added when he saw the confusion on Zainal’s face, “I’ll explain later.”
“More boy?” Zainal asked Kris, his teeth white in the dark as he grinned.
“More what?” Lenny asked.
“I’ll explain later,” Kris replied, chuckling. She wondered what Aarens would say if he knew she’d prefer the Catteni to his company any day of the week. Or any night, come to think of it. Down, girl, she told herself, but having said that, the notion came back often enough to tease her.
They slipped out of the barn, Zainal closing the door carefully until they heard the lock snick. Then they went to the first of the inhabited barns and Zainal opened it, too.
“Oh, my god, I thought you’d gone and left us,” cried the man, his voice sounding loudly in the quiet night. He was only one of many crowded close to the door.
“Sssssh,” said the relief team as a chorus.
“Damn mechanicals might hear ya,” Aarens said. “Follow me and fer gawssake, be quiet.”
While Kris was asleep, the rescue had been organized. Two men would lead each rescued group down the road to the crates and start them up the ropes hanging in readiness. Zainal and Kris took the last group since Zainal was the only one who knew the exact trick to open the doors.
In the group she and Zainal released, there were two women, one of them heavily pregnant and awkward in movement, and the other one older and limping badly. The pregnant woman was also slightly hysterical with the relief of being rescued.
“It’s bad enough my Jack got killed on Barevi, but I thought I’d at least have my baby to cherish,” she said weepingly. Not that Kris blamed her, but this was neither the time nor place for true confessions. “Then that awful discipline meeting and I wasn’t doing a thing but standing where I was told to stand and then I get gassed. I prayed that, somehow, God was with us still and we’d be rescued. And we are, and I simply can’t believe it. Oh, you’re so good to risk your lives to save ours.”
Kris couldn’t seem to stem her flow of talk. At least Patti Sue would shut up when told to.
“How’re we going to get her up the crates?” she asked Zainal in a tense whisper as they started the people down the road.
“I carry. Not heavy. Big.”
“Just don’t let her see you’re Catteni,” Kris said, glad that the poor light hid the telltale gray of his skin tone.
The pregnant woman, Anna Bollinger, presented less of a difficulty getting up on the crates than some of the others. Fumble-footed and-fingered, some of them, and four, besides Anna, had to be hauled up because their shoulder muscles gave out on the third “lift.”
Eventually, all thirty-five were on the top and moving off north by east as Slav had. Not moving very quickly either as if the release and climb had about taken all the physical energy they had left in them.
Sometimes, Kris thought as she trudged along beside Zainal, you can do the right thing for the wrong reason. Her hands were stinging, her wrist ached despite the strip of blanket she had wrapped about it as a brace, her shins were scraped and raw, her toes hurt, and she was sure her arm and shoulder muscles would never recover. She would have loved to have a trough to wallow in.
By the time the first moon came up, they had not yet made it to the end of the crates. Again she wondered what was in them, if it wasn’t halves of loo-cows, and for whom the machines gathered the
supplies.
* * *
THEY HAD TO CALL A BREAK THEN, TO REST THE less able of their number. Anna, in particular, and Janet, the older woman, were totally unequal to a steady march. When it was discovered that most of them had eaten the last of their ration bars in preparation for escape, Zainal immediately gestured for the patrol to share out the extras they had brought along. Chewing the dry bars without water to soften them made eating a chore. One of the Turs gobbled his down as if he hadn’t eaten in days.
“He didn’t know the Cats had packed us rations,” Lenny said. “Ninety and I have been sharing with him.”
“That was damned good of you,” Kris said, “considering you wouldn’t have known where your next meals were coming from.”
“Oh, I figured something would turn up,” and Lenny grinned impishly at her.
“Why, may I ask, is your brother ‘Ninety’?”
“Aw, now, we’re Irish, you see…”
“I had noticed.”
Another grin. “And we’ve this saying in Ireland—that the crack, the fun, is ninety.”
“And we don’t mean the cost of the stuff,” Ninety said in an irritated voice. “I like the crack…pubs and all—god, wouldn’t a Guinness taste good about now.”
“I told ya, don’t, Ninety. I can stand anything but your mentioning Guinness,” Lenny said, an edge on his usually cheerful voice for the first time in a very trying night. “Sorry, Kris.”
“So I’m Ninety because I look for a good crack,” Ninety finished up and gave the final bite of his ration bar a wistful look.
“Damned micks,” Aarens muttered. He had positioned himself near Kris, she noticed, on her other side, away from the Doyle brothers.
“Let me straighten you out on one detail, Aarens,” Kris said, not that she cared if she saved him some knocks for his attitude, but his comments grated against her sense of rightness. “We’re all in this together: humans, Deskis, Rugarians, Ilginish, and Turs. And especially the lone representative of our former captors. He got dumped on this godforsaken place just like the rest of us and he’s in command of the patrol that just saved your skin, bones, and meat. So cut the bigotry out. Understand?”
“You know him well?” and the man’s tone was lewd and his suggestion unmistakable.
Lenny and Ninety both reacted, but Lenny was nearer. He leaned forward until his face was right up to Aarens’.
“If Kris here says the Cat’s a good guy, we’ll take her word for it, Aarens. Now cut your bellyachin’. He got you free and, if you want to slope off now and do your own thing, we’ll never mention we ever met ya.”
Aarens subsided as Kris inched closer to the Doyle brothers.
“Where’s the Cat…” Ninety began, looking about him.
“His name is Zainal,” Kris said, as ready to insist on that point with Ninety as everyone else.
“Okay, where’s this Zainal leading us?”
“To the camp our clever Sergeant Mitford established. A series of good-sized caves with an underground lake. It’s a pretty good place. Hunting’s great. How good are you with slingshots?”
Lenny chuckled. “You see before you one of the great rabbit hunters of the Blasket Islands.”
Ninety snorted. “You used a two-two,” and then he leaned toward Kris, grinning from ear to ear, “with a telescopic lens and a silencer.”
“That was so I could get in a second shot without the little scuts hearing me on the odd time or two I missed my first shot. Once I got my eye in, I didn’t need either silencer or ’scope.”
“We’ve also found a huge grain store,” Kris went on, “so we should even have bread when we get back.”
“How far is it?” and Lenny glanced over at Anna and Janet.
“I don’t know…Wait a minute.…” Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Zainal suddenly rise to his feet, looking pointedly in one direction. Peering in that area, she made out several figures moving in the moonlight down the slope above the crates. “That’s Slav come back. He either made damned good time or our camp’s not far away.”
Slav had brought two other Rugarians and four humans with him—and cold roast rocksquat, some unleavened bread, and earthen water bottles that were leaking slowly but still contained enough for everyone to have a drink. They also carried ropes and more blankets.
“Sarge says go. We come,” Slav said in Barevi, grinning his jagged toothy smile which included Coo and Kris.
They had to split the meat portions further to give everyone a piece, but Lenny and Ninety were definitely impressed.
Anna had to be coaxed to eat—mainly because she was exhausted, Kris decided, but Janet said she would have eaten anything on six legs. They were both given two cups of water as a special concession.
That was when Zainal noticed Kris’ bandaged wrist.
“You hurt?”
“Just a sprain. Nothing to worry about,” she said, feeling a little foolish at having strapped her wrist.
“You go with Pess. Lead walkers. Report to Sarge.”
“I’ll bet he’s full of questions,” Kris said, glad that Slav had arrived with humans to give Mitford a verbal report. “But I should stay to help the women.”
“No,” Zainal said firmly. “Much help. You,” and he cocked his finger at her, “better to report.”
“All right,” and she conceded as gracefully as possible. There were more than enough men to assist the two women, and Deskis and Rugarians to help with portages.
Although Lenny and Ninety protested that they were more than willing to help, Zainal ticked them off to go with Kris. She wasn’t surprised that he sent Aarens back with her as well as Joe Lattore and some of the other men who were all too eager to see this great camp that had been contrived.
Revitalized by the meat and the water, Kris went to reassure Anna and Janet that they weren’t all that far from the safety of the caves.
“We’ve got medical personnel, too,” she reassured Anna.
“Medicines?” Anna asked hopefully.
“If they’ve found bread, they’ve got the start of penicillin, now don’t they?” Kris said jokingly, but she had the feeling Anna was hoping for analgesics to take the edge off her imminent delivery. Kris left quickly then, not wanting to have to face any further unanswerable questions.
As there wasn’t a damned thing wrong with her feet and ankles, Kris set the pace, right behind Pess. Aarens started out beside her but she didn’t fancy him for company and she gave him grunts for answers to his conversational gambits until he got her message. Muttering curses about ungrateful bitches and butchy women, he dropped back to the rear of the group.
Kris wondered if she had been wise in discouraging him. But he was the sort who’d need a lot of discouragement and his attitudes irritated her. Better discouragement than an all-out brawl.
A couple of good long climbs were successfully negotiated in the light of the second moon, Aarens bitching about night maneuvers. By third moonset, even Pess was slowing up. But, when the Rugarian hit the beginning of the ravine, he brightened and so did Kris, surprised to recognize the terrain she had first walked in a semi-stupor, carrying Patti Sue. But a landmark that led you home—to any home—was always heartening.
“We’re nearly there, guys. Home stretch now,” she called over her shoulder and worked her shoulders out of a tired slump.
By sunrise they were back in a camp amazingly altered in the four days of her absence. As she turned the final curve, she stopped short, noting all the improvements. And the sight of Sergeant Chuck Mitford more or less where she had last seen him, at his “command” post.
That, too, had improved. The hearth had been enlarged, obviously to be used as a barbecue site, and a fire burned cheerfully in the center. Blocks of stone had been moved to form a semicircle around Mitford’s central “desk,” which had also been enlarged. On one side he had a pile of thin slates, bearing chalk marks, but he was working on something thin, like paper, with a sturdy wooden affair that
near as nevermind looked like a pencil.
Sentries topped the higher points around the camp ravine: the stairs to the main cavern now boasted wider risers and a handrail. On the opposite side of the ravine, she couldn’t fail to notice what looked like medieval stocks. Two of them, one occupied, though she couldn’t see the face of the stockee since his head was hanging. The thin frame looked like Arnie’s. She wondered what he’d done to rate that sort of incarceration. And what a novel idea for discipline!
The ravine floor had been swept clean and she really couldn’t take in all the other improvements because Mitford had seen her. He grinned as he beckoned her to join him.
As she did, she saw him lean to one side and lift a creditable pottery pitcher. It seemed to be clad in some sort of odd matting, and a little steam escaped its lid.
“Pull up a rock, Kris, and tell me what you and that Catteni have been up to,” he said, gesturing for her to present her cup so he could fill it. “It’s hot, at least, and doesn’t taste too bad. I’ve been in places with worse coffee.”
“Didn’t the first group tell you?” Kris asked, blowing on her drink.
“I’m debriefing everyone, Bjornsen,” was his reply, emphasized by a slight frown at her objection.
She covered her embarrassment at questioning his methods by taking a sip from her cup.
The heat of the beverage was not its only recommendation, for it had an oddly minty flavor that knocked the dryness out of her mouth. If she hadn’t had the cup in her hand, though, Kris would have been tempted to salute Mitford.
Ignoring the fatigue that made it difficult to find the words she needed, she gave what she felt was a concise report of the patrol. She emphasized the dangers of nighttime scavengers, of crop-filled fields, and the notion that the mechanicals were solar powered. Mitford nodded at that, making a short notation on the thin stuff.
“You’ve a source of paper, sarge?” she asked, interrupting herself.
“Bark, don’t know how long it’ll hold the lead…even got a pencil.…” And, grinning, he held up the thick shaft. “One of the geologist types found some carbon lead. The bark’s a lot easier to handle than those slates. Doesn’t break and flake. Tell me more about this solar-power notion?”
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