MacAran frowned, wondering exactly how that was meant. Captain Leicester proceeded to explain.
“Many of you people bound for the colonies have skills which will be useful there but which are of no use to us here,” he said. “Within a day or two we will set up a personnel department to inventory all known skills. Some of you who have registered as farmers or artisans will be placed under the direction of our scientists or engineers to be trained. I demand a total push.”
At the back of the room, Moray rose. He said, “May I ask a question, Captain?”
“You may.”
“Are you saying that the two hundred of us in this room can, within five or ten years, develop a technological culture capable of building—or rebuilding—a starship? That we can discover the metals, mine them, refine them, machine them, and build the necessary machinery?”
The Captain said quietly, “With the full co-operation of every person here, this can be done. I estimate that it will take between three and five years.”
Moray said flatly, “You’re insane. You’re asking us to evolve a whole technology!”
“What man has done, man can do again,” Captain Leicester said imperturbably. “After all, Mr. Moray, I remind you that we have no alternative.”
“The hell we don’t!”
“You are out of order,” the Captain said sternly. “Please take your seat.”
“No, damn it! If you really believe all this can be done,” Moray said, “I can only assume that you’re stark raving mad. Or that the mind of an engineer or spaceman works so differently from any sane man’s that there’s no way to communicate. You say this will take three to five years. May I respectfully remind you that we have about a year to eighteen months’ supply of food and medical supplies? May I also remind you that even now—moving toward summer—the climate is harsh and rigorous and our shelters are insufficient? The winter on this world, with its exaggerated tilt on the axis, is likely to be more brutal than anything any Earthman has ever experienced.”
“Doesn’t that prove the necessity of getting off this world as soon as possible?”
“No, it proves the need of finding reliable sources of food and shelter,” Moray said. “That’s where we need our total push! Forget your ship, Captain. It isn’t going anywhere. Come to your senses. We’re colonists, not scientists. We have everything we need to survive here—to settle down here. But we can’t do it if half our energies are devoted to some senseless plan of diverting all our resources to repair a hopelessly crashed ship!”
There was a small uproar in the hall, a flood of cries, questions, outrage. The Captain repeatedly called for order, and finally the cries died down to dull mutterings. Moray demanded, “I call for a vote,” and the uproar rose again.
The Captain said, “I refuse to consider your proposal, Mr. Moray. The matter will not come to a vote. May I remind you that I am currently in supreme command of this ship? Must I order your arrest?”
“Arrest, hell,” Moray said scornfully. “You’re not in space now, Captain. You’re not on the bridge of your ship. You have no authority over any of us, Captain—except maybe your own crew, if they want to obey you.”
Leicester stood on the rostrum, as white as his shirt, his eyes gleaming with fury. He said, “I remind all of you that MacAran’s party, sent out to explore, has discovered traces of intelligent life on this planet. Earth Expeditionary has a standard policy of not placing colonies on inhabited planets. If we settle here we are likely to bring cultural shock to the stone age culture.”
Another uproar. Moray shouted angrily, “Do you think your attempts to evolve a technology here for your repairs wouldn’t do that? In God’s name, sir, we have everything we need to establish a colony here. If we divert all our resources to your insane effort to repair the ship, it’s doubtful if we can even survive!”
Captain Leicester made a distinct effort to master himself, but his fury was obvious. He said harshly, “You are suggesting that we abandon the effort—and relapse into barbarism?”
Moray was suddenly very grave. He came forward to the rostrum and stood beside the Captain. His voice was level and calm.
“I hope not, Captain. It is man’s mind that makes him a barbarian, not his technology. We may have to do without top-level technology, at least for a few generations, but that doesn’t mean we can’t establish a good world here for ourselves and our children, a civilized world. There have been civilizations which have existed for centuries almost without technology. The illusion that man’s culture is only the history of his technostructures is propaganda from the engineers, sir. It has no basis in sociology—or in philosophy.”
The Captain said harshly, “I’m not interested in your social theories, Mr. Moray.”
Doctor Di Asturien rose. He said, “Captain, one thing must be taken into account. We made a most disquieting discovery today—”
At that moment a violent clap of thunder rocked the hospital tent. The hastily rigged lights went out. And from the door one of the security men shouted:
“Captain! Captain! The woods are on fire!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Everyone kept their heads; Captain Leicester bellowed from the platform, “Get some lights in here; security, get some lights!” One of the young men on the Medic staff found a handlamp for the Captain and one of the bridge officers shouted, “Everyone! Stay in place and wait for orders, there is no danger here! Get those lights rigged as fast as you can!”
MacAran was near enough to the door to see the distant rising glare against the darkness. In a few minutes lamps were being distributed, and Moray, from the platform, said urgently, “Captain, we have tree-felling and earth-moving equipment. Let me order a detail to work on firebreaks around the encampment.”
“Right, Mr. Moray. Get with it,” Leicester said harshly. “All bridge officers, gather here; get to the ship and secure any flammable or explosive material.” He hurried away toward the back of the tent. Moray ordered all able-bodied men to the clearing, and requisitioned all available handlamps not in use on the bridge. “Form up in the same squads you did for gravedigging detail,” he ordered. MacAran found himself in a crew with Father Valentine and eight strangers, felling trees in a ten-foot swath around the clearing. The fire was still a distant roar on a slope miles away, a red glare against the sky, but the air smelled of smoke, with a strange acrid undertone.
Someone said at MacAran’s elbow, “How can the woods catch fire after all this rain?”
He brought back memory of something Marco Zabal had said that first night. “The trees are heavily resined—practically tinder. Some few of them may even burn when they’re wet— we built a campfire of green wood. I suppose lightning can set off a fire at almost any time.” We were lucky, he thought, we camped out in the center of the woods and never thought of fire, or of firebreaks. “I suspect we’ll need a permanent firebreak around any encampment or work area.”
Father Valentine said, “You sound as if you thought we were going to be here a long time.”
MacAran bent to his saw. He said, not looking up, “No matter whose side you’re on—the Captain’s or Moray’s—it looks as if we’ll be here for years.” He was too weary, and too unsure of anything at this moment, to decide for himself if he had any real preference and in any case he was sure no one would consult him about his choice, but down deep he knew that if they ever left this world again he would regret it.
Father Valentine touched his shoulder. “I think the Lieutenant is looking for you.”
He straightened to see Camilla Del Rey walking toward him. She looked worn and haggard, her hair uncombed and her uniform dirty. He wanted to take her in his arms but instead he stood and watched her attempt not to meet his eyes as she said, “Rafe, the Captain wants to talk with you. You know the terrain better than anyone else. Do you think it could be fought or contained?”
“Not in the dark—and not without heavy equipment,” MacAran said, but he accompanied her back toward the Ca
ptain’s field quarters. He had to admire the efficiency with which the firebreak operation had been set up, the small amount of ship’s firefighting equipment moved to the hospital. The Captain had sense enough to use Moray here. They’re really two of a kind—if they could only work together for the same objectives. But just now they’re the irresistible force and the immovable object.
The fine rain was changing to heavy sleet as they came into the dome. The small dark crowded dome was dimly lit by a single handlamp, and the battery seemed to be already failing.
Moray was saying: “—our power sources are already giving way. Before we can do anything else, sir, in your plan or mine, some sources of light and heat have to be found. We have wind-power and solar-power equipment in the colonizing materials, although I somehow doubt if this sun has enough light and radiation for much solar power. MacAran—” he turned, “I take it there are mountain streams? Any big enough for damming?”
“Not that we saw in the few days we were in the mountains,” MacAran said, “but there’s plenty of wind.”
“That will do for a temporary makeshift,” Captain Leicester said. “MacAran, do you know exactly where the fire is located?”
“Far enough to be no immediate danger to us,” MacAran said, “although we’re going to need firebreaks from now on, anywhere we go. But this fire’s no danger, I think. The rain’s turning to snow and I think that will smother it out.”
“If it can burn in the rain—”
“Snow’s wetter and heavier,” MacAran said, and was interrupted by what sounded like a volley of gunfire. “What’s that?”
Moray said, “Game stampede—probably getting away from the fire. Your officers are shooting food. Captain, once again, I suggest conservation of ammunition for absolute emergencies. Even on Earth, game has been hunted recreationally with bow and arrow. There are prototypes in the recreation department, and we’ll need them for enlarging the food supply.”
“Full of ideas, aren’t you,” Leicester grunted, and Moray said, tight-mouthed, “Captain, running a spaceship is your business. Setting up a viable society with the most economical use of resources is mine.”
For a moment the two men stared at one another in the failing light, the others in the dome forgotten. Camilla had edged around behind the Captain and it seemed to MacAran that she was supporting him mentally as well as backing him up physically. Outside there were all the noises of the camp, and behind it all the small hiss of snow striking the dome. Then a gust of high wind struck it and a blast of cold air came in through the flapping doorway; Camilla ran to shut it, struggling against the wild blast, and was flung back. The door swung wildly, came loose from the makeshift hinges and knocked the girl off her feet; MacAran ran to help her up. Captain Leicester swore softly and began to shout for one of his aides.
Moray raised a hand. He said quietly, “We need stronger and more permanent shelters, Captain. These were built to last six weeks. May I order them built to last for a few years, then?”
Captain Leicester was silent, and with that new and exaggerated sensitivity it almost seemed to MacAran that he could hear what the Captain was thinking. Was this an entering wedge? Could he use Moray’s undoubted talents without giving him too much power over the colonists, and diminishing his own? When he spoke his voice was bitter; but he gave way gracefully.
“You know survival, Mr. Moray. I’m a scientist—and a spaceman. I’ll put you in charge of the camp, on a temporary basis. Get your priorities in order and requisition what you need.” He strode to the door and stood there looking out at the whirling snow. “No fire can live in that. Call in the men and feed them before they go back to making firebreaks. You’re in charge, Moray—for the time being.” His back was straight and indomitable, but he sounded tired. Moray bowed slightly. There was no hint of subservience in it.
“Don’t think I’m giving way,” Leicester warned. “That ship is going to be repaired.”
Moray shrugged a little. “Maybe so. But it can’t be repaired unless we survive long enough to do it. For now, that’s all I’m concerned about.”
He turned to Camilla and MacAran, ignoring the Captain.
“MacAran, your party knows at least some of the terrain. I want a local survey made of all resources, including food—Dr. Lovat can handle that. Lieutenant Del Rey, you’re a navigator; you have access to instruments. Can you arrange to make some sort of climate survey which we might manage to use for weather prediction?” He broke off. “The middle of the night isn’t the time for this. We’ll get moving tomorrow.” He moved to the door and, finding his way blocked by Captain Leicester standing and staring into the whirling snowflakes, tried to move past him a time or two, finally touched him on the shoulder. The Captain started and moved aside. Moray said, “The first thing to do is to get those poor devils in out of the storm. Will you give orders, Captain, or shall I?”
Captain Leicester met his eyes levelly and with taut hostility. “It doesn’t matter,” he said quietly, “I’m not concerned with which of us gives the orders, and God help you, if you’re just looking for the power to give them. Camilla, go and tell Major Layton to secure from firelighting operations and make sure that everyone who was on the firebreak line gets hot food before he turns in.” The girl pulled her hood over her head and hurried off through the snow.
“You may have your talents, Moray,” he said, “and as far as I’m concerned you’re welcome to use mine. But there’s an old saying in the Space Service. Anyone who intrigues for power, deserves to get it!”
He strode out of the dome, leaving the wind to blow through it, and MacAran, watching Moray, felt that somehow, obscurely, the Captain had come off best.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The days were lengthening, but even so there seemed never to be enough light or enough time for the work which had to be done in the settlement. Three days after the fire, extensive firebreaks thirty feet wide had been constructed around the encampment, and firefighting squads had been organized for emergency outbreaks. It was about that time that MacAran went off, with a party of the colonists, to make Moray’s survey. The only members of the previous party to accompany him were Judith Lovat and MacLeod. Judy was still quiet and contained, almost unspeaking; MacAran was worried about her, but she did her work efficiently and seemed to have an almost psychic awareness of where to find the sort of thing they were looking for.
For the most part, this woodland exploration trip was uneventful. They laid out trails for possible roadways toward the valley where they had first seen herds of game, assessed the amount of fire damage—which was not really very great—mapped the local streams and rivers, and MacAran collected rock samples from the local heights to assess their potential ore contents.
Only one major event broke the rather pleasant monotony of the trip. One evening toward sunset they were blazing trail through an unusually thick level of forest when MacLeod, slightly ahead of the main party, stopped short, turned back, laying a finger on his lips to enjoin silence, and beckoned to MacAran.
MacAran came forward, Judy tiptoeing at his side. She looked oddly excited.
MacLeod pointed upward through the thick trees. Two huge trunks rose dizzyingly high, without auxiliary branches for at least sixty feet; and spanning them, swung a bridge. There was nothing else to call it; a bridge of what looked like woven wickerwood, elaborately constructed with handrails.
MacLeod said in a whisper, “There are the proofs of your aborigines. Can they be arboreal? Is that why we haven’t seen them?”
Judy said sharply, “Hush!” In the distance there was a small, shrill, chattering sound; then, above them on the bridge, a creature appeared.
They all got a good look at it in that moment; about five feet tall, either pale-skinned or covered with pale fur, gripping the bridge rail with undoubted hands—none of them had presence of mind to count the fingers—a flat but oddly humanoid face, with a flat nose and red eyes. For nearly ten seconds it clung to the bridge and looked down
at them, seeming nearly as startled as they were themselves; then, with a shrill birdlike cry it rushed across the bridge, swung up into the trees and vanished.
MacAran let out a long sigh. So this world was inhabited, not free and open for mankind. MacLeod asked quietly, “Judy, were these the people you saw that day? The one you called the beautiful one?”
Judy’s face took on the strange stubbornness which any mention of that day could bring on. “No,” she said, quietly but very positively. “These are the little brothers, the small ones who are not wise.”
And nothing could move her from that, and very quickly they gave over questioning her. But MacLeod and Major Fraser were in seventh heaven.
“Arboreal humanoids. Nocturnal, to judge by their eyes, probably simian, although more like tarsiers than apes. Obviously sapient—they’re tool-users and makers of artifacts. Homo arborens. Men living in trees,” MacLeod said.
MacAran said hesitatingly, “If we have to stay here—how can two sapient species survive on one planet? Doesn’t that invariably mean a fatal war for dominance?”
Fraser said, “God willing, no. After all, there were four sapient species on Earth for a long time. Mankind—and dolphins, whales, and probably elephants too. We just happened to be the only technological species. They’re tree-dwelling; we’re ground-dwelling. No conflict, as far as I can see—anyway no necessary conflict.”
MacAran wasn’t so sure, but kept his qualms to himself.
Peaceful as their trip was, there were unexpected dangers. In the valley with the game, which they named for convenience the Plains of Zabal, the game was stalked by great catlike predators and only nighttime fires kept them away. And on the heights MacAran caught his first sight of the birds with the banshee voices; great wingless birds with vicious claws, moving at such speeds that only a last desperate recourse to the laser beam they carried for emergencies kept Dr. Fraser from being disemboweled by a terrible stroke; MacLeod, dissecting the dead bird, discovered that it was completely blind. “Does it get at its prey by hearing? Or something else?”
Darkover: First Contact Page 9
