“I suspect it senses body warmth,” MacAran said, “they seem only to live in the snows.” They christened the dreadful birds banshees, and avoided the passes except in broad daylight after that. They also found mounds of the scorpion-like ants whose bites had killed Dr. Zabal, and debated poisoning them; MacLeod was against it, on the grounds that these ants might form some important part of an ecological chain which could not be disturbed. They finally agreed to exterminate only the mounds within three square miles of the ship, and warn everyone about the dangers of their bite. It was an interim measure, but then everything they did on this planet was an interim measure.
“If we leave the damn place,” Dr. Fraser said harshly, “we’ll have to leave it pretty much the way we found it.”
When they returned to the encampment, after a three week survey, they found that two permanent buildings of wood and stone had already been erected; a common recreation hall and refectory, and a building for use as a laboratory. It was the last time MacAran measured anything by weeks; they still did not know the length of the planet’s year, but they had for the sake of convenience and the assignment of duties and work shifts set up an arbitrary ten-day cycle, with one day in every ten a general holiday. Large gardens had been laid out and seeds were already sprouting, and a careful harvesting was being made of a few tested fruits from the woods.
A small wind generator had been rigged, but power was strictly rationed and candles made from resin from the trees were being issued for night use. The temporary domes still housed most of the personnel except those who were located in the hospital; MacAran shared his with a dozen other single men.
The day after his return Ewen Ross summoned both him and Judy to the hospital. “You missed Dr. Di Asturien’s announcement,” he said. “In brief, our hormone contraceptives are worthless—no pregnancies so far except one very doubtful early miscarriage, but we’ve been relying on hormones so long that no one knows much about the prehistoric kind any more. We don’t have pregnancy-testing equipment, either, since nobody needs it on a spaceship. Which means if we do get any pregnancies they may be too far advanced for safe abortions before they’re even diagnosed!”
MacAran smiled wryly. “You can save your breath where I’m concerned,” he said, “the only girl I’m currently interested in doesn’t know I’m alive—or at least wishes I weren’t.” He had not even seen Camilla since his return.
Ewen said, “Judy, what about you? I looked up your Medic record; you’re at the age where contraception is voluntary instead of mandatory—”
She smiled faintly. “Because at my age I’m not likely to be taken unawares by emotion. I’ve not been sexually active on this voyage—there’s no one I’ve been interested in, so I’ve not bothered with the shots.”
“Well, check with Margaret Raimondi anyhow—she’s giving out emergency information just in case. Sex is voluntary, Judy, but information is mandatory. You can choose to abstain—but you ought to be free to choose not to, so run along to Margaret and pick up the information.”
She began to laugh and it struck MacAran that he had not seen Judith Lovat laugh since the day of the strange madness that had attacked them all. But the laughing seemed to have a hysterical note which made him uneasy, and he was relieved when she said at last, “Oh, very well. What harm can it do?” and went. Ewen looked after her with disquiet, too.
“I’m not happy about her. She seems to have been the only one permanently affected by whatever it was that hit us, but we haven’t psychiatrists to spare and anyhow she is able to do her work—which is a legal definition of sanity in any terms. Still, I hope she snaps out of it. Was she all right on the trip?”
MacAran nodded. He said thoughtfully, “Perhaps she had some experience she hasn’t told us about. She certainly seems at home here. Something like what you told me about MacLeod knowing the fruits were good to eat. Could an emotional shock develop latent psi powers?”
Ewen shook his head. “God only knows, and we’re too busy to check it out. Anyhow, how would you check out anything like that? As long as she’s normal enough to do her assigned work I can’t interfere with her.”
After leaving the hospital, MacAran walked through the encampment. Everything looked peaceful, from the small shop where farm tools were being constructed, to the ship area where machinery was being removed and stored. He found Camilla in the dome which had been wind-damaged the night of the fire; it had been repaired and reinforced, and the computer controls set up inside. She looked at him with what seemed open hostility.
“What do you want? Has Moray sent you here to order me to transform this into a weather station or some such thing?”
“No, but it sounds like a good idea,” MacAran said. “Another blizzard like the one that hit us the night of the fire, could wreck us if we weren’t warned.”
She came and looked up at him. Her arms were straight down at her sides, clenched into fists, and her face taut with anger. She said, “I think you must all be quite insane. I don’t expect anything more of the colonists—they’re just civilians and all they care about is getting their precious colony set up. But you, Rafe! You’ve had a scientist’s training, you ought to see what it means! All we have is the hope of repairing the ship—if we waste our resources on anything else, the chances get smaller and smaller!” She sounded frantic. “And we’ll be here forever!”
MacAran said slowly, “Remember, Camilla, I was one of the colonists, too. I left Earth to join the Coronis colony—”
“But that’s a regular colony, with everything set up to make it—to make it part of civilization,” Camilla said. “I can understand that. Your skills, your education, they’d be worth something!”
MacAran reached out and took her shoulders in his hands. “Camilla—” he said, and put all his yearning into the sound of her name. She didn’t actually respond, but she was quiet between his hands, looking up at him. Her face was drawn and miserable.
“Camilla, will you listen to me a minute? I’m with the Captain all the way, as far as acts go. I’m willing to do anything needful to make sure the ship gets off the ground. But I’m keeping in mind that it may not, after all, be possible, and I want to make sure we can survive if it isn’t.”
“Survive for what?” Camilla said, almost frantic. “To revert to savagery, survive as farmers, barbarians, with nothing that makes life worth living? We’d do better to die in a last effort!”
“I don’t know why you say that, my love. After all, the first humans started with less than we have. Their world, maybe, had a little better climate, but then we have ten or twelve thousand years of human know-how. A group of people that Captain Leicester thinks capable of repairing a starship, ought to have enough know-how to build a pretty good life for themselves and their children—and all the generations after that.” He tried to draw her into his arms, but she wrenched away, white and furious.
“I’d rather die,” she said harshly, “any civilized human being would! You’re worse than the New Hebrides group out there—Moray’s people—that damnfool back-to-nature crew, playing right into his hands—”
“I don’t know anything about them—Camilla, my darling, please don’t be angry with me. I’m only trying to look at both sides—”
“But there is only one side,” she flung at him, angry and implacable, “and if you don’t see it that way then you aren’t even worth talking with! I’m ashamed—I’m ashamed of myself that I ever let myself think you might be different!” Tears were running down her face, and she angrily flung off his hands. “Get out and stay out! Get out, damn you!”
MacAran had the temper usually associated with his hair. He dropped his hands as if he had been burned, and spun on his heel. “It will be a positive pleasure,” he said between his teeth, and strode out of the dome, slamming the reinforced door until it rattled on its hinges. Behind him Camilla collapsed on a bench, her face in her hands, and cried herself sick, weeping frantically until a wave of violent nausea racked her, for
cing her to stagger away toward the women’s latrine area. At last she crept away, her head pounding, her face flushed and sore, aching in every nerve.
As she returned to the computer dome, a memory struck her. This had happened three times now—in a surge of violent fear and rejection, her hands went up to her mouth, and she bit at her knuckles.
“Oh, no,” she whispered, “Oh, no, no . . .” and her voice trailed off in whispered pleas and imprecations. Her gray eyes were wild with terror.
MacAran had gone into the combined recreation area-refectory, which had quickly become a center for the huge and disorganized community, when he noticed on an improvised bulletin board a notice about a meeting of the New Hebrides Commune. He had seen this before—the colonists accepted by Earth Expeditionary had consisted not only of individuals like himself and Jenny, but of small groups or communes, extended families, even two or three business companies wishing to extend their trade or open branch offices. They were all carefully screened to determine how they would fit into the balanced development of the colony, but apart from that they were a most heterogeneous crew. He suspected that the New Hebrides Commune was one of the many small neo-rural communes who had drawn away from the mainstream society on latter-day Earth, resenting its industrialization and regimentation. Many such communities had gone out to the star colonies; everyone agreed that while misfits on Earth, they made excellent colonists. He had never paid the slightest attention to them before; but after Camilla’s words he was curious. He wondered if their meeting was open to outsiders?
He vaguely remembered that this group had occasionally reserved one of the ship’s recreation areas for their own meetings, they seemed to have a strongly knit community life. Well, at worst they could ask him to leave.
He found them in the empty, between-meal refectory area. Most of them were sitting in a circle and playing musical instruments; one of them, a tall youth with long braided hair, raised his head and said, “Members only, friend,” but another, a girl with red hair hanging loose to her waist, said, “No, Alastair. It’s MacAran, and he was on the exploring team, he knows a lot of the answers we need. Come in, man, make yourself welcome.”
Alastair laughed. “Right you are, Fiona, and with a name like MacAran he should be an honorary member anyway.”
MacAran came in. To his faint surprise he saw, somewhere in the circle, the round, pudgy, ginger-haired little figure of Lewis MacLeod. He said, “I didn’t meet any of you on the ship, I’m afraid I don’t know what you people are supposed to stand for.”
Alastair said quietly, “We’re neo-ruralists, of course; world-builders. Some members of the Establishment call us anti-technocrats, but we’re not the destroyers. We’re simply looking for an honorable alternative for the society of Earth, and we’re usually just as welcome in the colonies as they are glad to have us away from Earth. So—tell us, MacAran. What’s the story here? How soon can we get out to make our own settlement?”
MacAran said, “You know as much as I do. The climate is pretty brutal, you know; if it’s like this in summer, it’s going to be a lot rougher in winter.”
Fiona laughed. She said, “Most of us grew up in the Hebrides or even the Orkneys. They have about the worst climate on Earth. Cold doesn’t scare us, MacAran. But we want to be established in community life, so we can set up our own ways and customs, before the winter sets in.”
MacAran said slowly, “I’m not sure Captain Leicester will let anyone leave the encampment. The priority is still on repairing the ship, and I think he regards all of us as a single community. If we begin to break up—”
“Come off it,” Alastair said, “none of us are scientists. We can’t spend five years working on a starship; it’s against our entire philosophy!”
“Survival—”
“—survival.” MacAran understood only a little of the Gaelic of his forefathers, but he realized Alastair was being indecent. “Survival, to us, means setting up a colony here as fast as possible. We signed on to go to Coronis. Captain Leicester made a mistake and set us down here, but it’s all the same to us. For our purposes, this is even better.”
MacAran raised his eyebrows at MacLeod. He said, “I didn’t know you belonged to this group.”
“I didn’t,” MacLeod said, “I’m a fringe member, but I agree with them—and I want to stay here.”
“I thought they didn’t approve of scientists.”
The girl Fiona said, “Only in their place. When they use their knowledge to serve and help mankind—not to manipulate it, or to destroy its spiritual strength. We’re happy to have Dr. MacLeod—Lewis, we don’t use titles—as one of us, with his knowledge of zoology.”
MacAran said, in amazement, “Are you intending to mutiny against Captain Leicester?”
“Mutiny? We’re not his crew or his subjects, man,” said a strange boy, “we just intend to live the way we would have made for ourselves on the new world. We can’t wait three years until he gives up this wild idea of rebuilding his ship. By that time we could have a functional community.”
“And if he does repair the ship, and goes on to Coronis? Will you stay here?”
“This is our world,” the girl Fiona said, coming to Alastair’s side. Her eyes were gentle but implacable. “Our children will be born here.”
MacAran said, in shock, “Are you trying to tell me—” Alastair said, “We don’t know, but some of our women may already be pregnant. It is our sign of commitment to this world, our sign of rejection of Earth and the world Captain Leicester wants to force on us. And you can tell him so.”
As MacAran left them, the musical instruments began again, and the mournful sound of a girl’s voice, in the eternal melancholy of an old song of the Isles; a lament for the dead, out of a past more torn and shattered with wars and exiles than any other people of Earth:Snow-white seagull, say,
Tell me, pray,
Where our fair young lads are resting.
Wave on wave they lie,
Breath nor sigh,
From their cold lips coming;
Sea-wrack their shroud,
Harp and dirge the sea’s sad crooning.
The song tightened MacAran’s throat, and against his will tears came to his eyes. They lament, he thought, but they know life goes on. The Scots have been exiles for centuries, for millennia. This is just another exile, a little further than most, but they will sing the old songs under the new stars and find new mountains and new seas. . . .
Going out of the hall he drew up his hood—by now it would be beginning to rain. But it wasn’t.
CHAPTER NINE
MacAran had already seen what a couple of rainless and snowless nights could do on this planet. The garden areas blossomed with vegetation, and flowers, mostly the small orange ones, covered the ground everywhere. The four moons came out in their glory from before sunset until well after sunrise, turning the sky into a flood of lilac brilliance.
The woods were dry, and they began to worry about keeping a firewatch. Within a few miles of the encampment, Moray got the idea of rigging lightning-rods to each of the hilltops, each anchored to an enormously tall tree. It might not prevent fire in the event of a serious storm, but might lessen the dangers somewhat.
And above them on the heights, the great bell-shaped golden flowers opened wide, their sweet-scented pollen drifting in the upper slopes. It had not reached the valleys.
Not yet. . . .
After a week of snowless evenings, moonlit nights and warm days—warm by the standards of this planet, which would have made Norway seem like a summer resort—MacAran went to ask Moray’s assent to another trip into the foothills. He felt he should take advantage of the rare seasonable weather to collect further geological specimens, and perhaps to locate caves which might serve as emergency shelter during later exploration. Moray had taken a small room at the corner of the Recreation building for an office, and while MacAran waited outside, Heather Stuart came into the building.
“What do you thin
k of this weather?” he asked her, the old habit from Earth asserting itself. When in doubt talk about the weather. Well, there’s plenty of weather on this planet to talk about, and it’s all so bad.
“I don’t like it,” Heather said seriously, “I haven’t forgotten what happened on the mountain when we had a few clear days.”
You too? MacAran thought, but he demurred. “How could the weather be responsible, Heather?”
“Airborne virus. Airborne pollen. Dust-borne chemicals. I’m a microbiologist, Rafe, you’d be surprised what can be in a few cubic inches of air or water or soil. In the debriefing session Camilla said the last thing she remembered before freaking out was smelling the flowers, and I remember that the air was full of their scent.” She smiled weakly. “Of course what I remember may not be any kind of evidence and I hope to God that I don’t find out by trial and error again. I’ve just found out for certain that I’m not pregnant, and I never want to go through that again. When I think of the way women must have had to live before the really safe contraceptives were invented, from month to month never knowing. . . .” She shuddered. “Rafe, is Camilla sure yet? She won’t talk to me about it any more.”
“I don’t know,” MacAran said sombrely, “she won’t talk to me at all.”
Heather’s fair mobile face registered dismay. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Rafe! I was so happy about you two, Ewen and I both hoped—oh, here, I think maybe Moray’s ready to see you.” The door had opened and the big redhead Alastair bumped into them as he came barging out; he turned and half shouted, “The answer is still no, Moray! We’re pulling out—all of us, our whole Community! Now, tonight!”
Moray followed him to the door. He said, “Selfish crew, aren’t you? You talk about community, and it turns out that you mean only your own little group—not the larger community of mankind on this planet. Did it ever occur to you that all of us, the whole two-hundred-odd of us, are perforce a commune? We are humanity, we are society. Where’s that big sense of responsibility toward your fellow man, laddie?”
Darkover: First Contact Page 10
