by Tom Godwin
But there was so little food left and the time was yet so long until fall would bring relief from the famine that he could only answer each of them with a grim and final “No.”
And watch the last hope flicker and die in their eyes and watch them turn away, to go and sit for the last hours beside their children.
Bemmon became increasingly irritable and complaining as the rationing and heat made existence a misery; insisting that Lake and the others were to blame for the food shortage, that their hunting efforts had been bungling and faint-hearted. And he implied, without actually saying so, that Lake and the others had forbidden him to go near the food chamber because they did not want a competent, honest man to check up on what they were doing. There were six hundred and three of them the blazing afternoon when the girl, Julia, could stand his constant, vindictive, fault-finding no longer. Lake heard about it shortly afterward, the way she had turned on Bemmon in a flare of temper she could control no longer and said:
“Whenever your mouth is still you can hear the children who are dying today—but you don’t care. All you can think of is yourself. You claim Lake and the others were cowards—but you didn’t dare hunt with them. You keep insinuating that they’re cheating us and eating more than we are—but your belly is the only one that has any fat left on it—”
She never completed the sentence. Bemmon’s face turned livid in sudden, wild fury and he struck her, knocking her against the rock wall so hard that she slumped unconscious to the ground.
“She’s a liar!” he panted, glaring at the others. “She’s a rotten liar and anybody who repeats what she said will get what she got!”
When Lake learned of what had happened he did not send for Bemmon at once. He wondered why Bemmon’s reaction had been so quick and violent and there seemed to be only one answer:
Bemmon’s belly was still a little fat. There could be but one way he could have kept it so. He summoned Craig, Schroeder, Barber and Anders. They went to the chamber where Bemmon slept and there, almost at once, they found his cache. He had it buried under his pallet and hidden in cavities along the walls; dried meat, dried fruits and milk, canned vegetables. It was an amount amazingly large and many of the items had presumably been exhausted during the deficiency disease attack.
“It looks,” Schroeder said, “like he didn’t waste any time feathering his nest when he made himself leader.”
The others said nothing but stood with grim, frozen faces, waiting for Lake’s next action.
“Bring Bemmon,” Lake said to Craig.
Craig returned with him two minutes later. Bemmon stiffened at the sight of his unearthed cache and color drained away from his face.
“Well?” Lake asked.
“I didn’t”—Bemmon swallowed—“I didn’t know it was there.” And then quickly, “You can’t prove I put it there. You can’t prove you didn’t just now bring it in yourselves to frame me.”
Lake stared at Bemmon, waiting. The others watched Bemmon as Lake was doing and no one spoke. The silence deepened and Bemmon began to sweat as he tried to avoid their eyes. He looked again at the damning evidence and his defiance broke.
“It—if I hadn’t take it it would have been wasted on people who were dying,” he said. He wiped at his sweating face. “I won’t ever do it again—I swear I won’t.”
Lake spoke to Craig. “You and Barber take him to the lookout point.”
“What—” Bemmon’s protest was cut off as Craig and Barber took him by the arms and walked him swiftly away.
Lake turned to Anders. “Get a rope,” he ordered.
Anders paled a little. “A—rope?”
“What else does he deserve?”
“Nothing,” Anders said. “Not—not after what he did.”
On the way out they passed the place where Julia lay. Bemmon had knocked her against the wall with such force that a sharp projection of rock had cut a deep gash in her forehead. A woman was wiping the blood from her face and she lay limply, still unconscious; a frail shadow of the bold girl she had once been with the new life she would try to give them an almost unnoticeable little bulge in her starved thinness.
*
*
*
The lookout point was an outjutting spur of the ridge, six hundred feet from the caves and in full view of them. A lone tree stood there, its dead limbs thrust like white arms through the brown foliage of the limbs that still lived. Craig and Barber waited under the tree, Bemmon between them. The lowering sun shone hot and bright on Bemmon’s face as he squinted back toward the caves at the approach of Lake and the other two.
He twisted to look at Barber. “What is it—why did you bring me here?” There was the tremor of fear in his voice. “What are you going to do to me?”
Barber did not answer and Bemmon turned back toward Lake. He saw the rope in Anders’
hand and his face went white with comprehension.
“No!”
Ht threw himself back with a violence that almost tore him loose. “No—no!”
Schroeder stepped forward to help hold him and Lake took the rope from Anders. He fashioned a noose in it while Bemmon struggled and made panting, animal sounds, his eyes fixed in horrified fascination on the rope.
When the noose was finished he threw the free end of the rope over the white limb above Bemmon. He released the noose and Barber caught it, to draw it snug around Bemmon’s neck. Bemmon stopped struggling then and sagged weakly. For a moment it appeared that he would faint. Then he worked his mouth soundlessly until words came:
“You won’t—you can’t—really hang me?”
Lake spoke to him:
“We’re going to hang you. What you stole would have saved the lives of ten children. You’ve watched the children cry because they were so hungry and you’ve watched them become too weak to cry or care any more. You’ve watched them die each day and each night you’ve secretly eaten the food that was supposed to be theirs.
“We’re going to hang you, for the murder of children and the betrayal of our trust in you. If you have anything to say, say it now.”
“You can’t! I had a right to live—to eat what would have been wasted on dying people!”
Bemmon twisted to appeal to the ones who held him, his words quick and ragged with hysteria. “You can’t hang me—I don’t want to die!”
Craig answered him, with a smile that was like the thin snarl of a wolf:
“Neither did two of my children.”
Lake nodded to Craig and Schroeder, not waiting any longer. They stepped back to seize the free end of the rope and Bemmon screamed at what was coming, tearing loose from the grip of Barber.
Then his scream was abruptly cut off as he was jerked into the air. There was a cracking sound and he kicked spasmodically, his head setting grotesquely to one side. Craig and Schroeder and Barber watched him with hard, expressionless faces but Anders turned quickly away, to be suddenly and violently sick.
“He was the first to betray us,” Lake said. “Snub the rope and leave him to swing there. If there are any others like him, they’ll know what to expect.”
The blue sun rose as they went back to the caves. Behind them Bemmon swung and twirled aimlessly on the end of the rope. Two long, pale shadows swung and twirled with him; a yellow one to the west and a blue one to the east.
Bemmon was buried the next day. Someone cursed his name and someone spit on his grave and then he was part of the dead past as they faced the suffering ahead of them. Julia recovered, although she would always wear a ragged scar on her forehead. Anders, who had worked closely with Chiara and was trying to take his place, quieted her fears by assuring her that the baby she carried was still too small for there to be much danger of the fall causing her to lose it.
Three times during the next month the wind came roaring down out of the northwest, bringing a gray dust that filled the sky and enveloped the land in a hot, smothering gloom through which the suns could not be seen.
Once black
clouds gathered in the distance, to pour out a cloudburst. The 1.5 gravity gave the wall of water that swept down the canyon a far greater force and velocity than it would have had on Earth and boulders the size of small houses were tossed into the air and shattered into fragments. But all the rain fell upon the one small area and not a drop fell at the caves. One single factor was in their favor and but for it they could not have survived such intense, continual heat: there was no humidity. Water evaporated quickly in the hot, dry air and sweat glands operated at the highest possible degree of efficiency. As a result they drank enormous quantities of water—the average adult needed five gallons a day. All canvas had been converted into water bags and the same principle of cooling-by-evaporation gave them water that was only warm instead of sickeningly hot as it would otherwise have been. But despite the lack of humidity the heat was still far more intense than any on Earth. It never ceased, day or night, never let them have a moment’s relief. There was a limit to how long human flesh could bear up under it, no matter how valiant the will. Each day the toll of those who had reached that limit was greater, like a swiftly rising tide. There were three hundred and forty of them when the first rain came; the rain that meant the end of summer. The yellow sun moved southward and the blue sun shrank steadily. Grass grew again and the woods goats returned, with them the young that had been born in the north, already half the size of their mothers.
For a while there was meat, and green herbs. Then the prowlers came, to make hunting dangerous. Females with pups were seen but always at a great distance as though the prowlers, like humans, took no chances with the lives of their children.
The unicorns came close behind the first prowlers, their young amazingly large and already weaned. Hunting became doubly dangerous then but the bowmen, through necessity, were learning how to use their bows with increasing skill and deadliness. A salt lick for the woods goats was hopefully tried, although Lake felt dubious about it. They learned that salt was something the woods goats could either take or leave alone. And when hunters were in the vicinity they left it alone.
The game was followed for many miles to the south. The hunters returned the day the first blizzard came roaring and screaming down over the edge of the plateau; the blizzard that marked the beginning of the long, frigid winter. By then they were prepared as best they could be. Wood had been carried in great quantities and the caves fitted with crude doors and a ventilation system. And they had meat—not as much as they would need but enough to prevent starvation.
Lake took inventory of the food supply when the last hunters returned and held check-up inventories at irregular and unannounced intervals. He found no shortages. He had expected none—Bemmon’s grave had long since been obliterated by drifting snow but the rope still hung from the dead limb, the noose swinging and turning in the wind.
*
*
*
Anders had made a Ragnarok calendar that spring, from data given him by John Prentiss, and he had marked the corresponding Earth dates on it. By a coincidence, Christmas came near the middle of the winter. There would be the same rationing of food on Christmas day but little brown trees had been cut for the children and decorated with such ornaments as could be made from the materials at hand.
There was another blizzard roaring down off the plateau Christmas morning; a white death that thundered and howled outside the caves at a temperature of more than eighty degrees below zero. But inside the caves it was warm by the fires and under the little brown trees were toys that had been patiently whittled from wood or sewn from scraps of cloth and animal skins while the children slept. They were crude and humble toys but the pale, thin faces of the children were bright with delight when they beheld them.
There was the laughter of children at play, a sound that had not been heard for many months, and someone singing the old, old songs. For a few fleeting hours that day, for the first and last time on Ragnarok, there was the magic of an Earth Christmas. That night a child was born to Julia, on a pallet of dried grass and prowler skins. She asked for her baby before she died and they let her have it.
“I wasn’t afraid, was I?” she asked. “But I wish it wasn’t so dark—I wish I could see my baby before I go.”
They took the baby from her arms when she was gone and removed from it the blanket that had kept her from learning that her child was still-born.
There were two hundred and fifty of them when the first violent storms of spring came. By then eighteen children had been born. Sixteen were still-born, eight of them deformed by the gravity, but two were like any normal babies on Earth. There was only one difference: the 1.5
gravity did not seem to affect them as much as it had the Earth-born babies. Lake, himself, married that spring; a tall, gray-eyed girl who had fought alongside the men the night of the storm when the prowlers broke into John Prentiss’s camp. And Schroeder married, the last of them all to do so.
That spring Lake sent out two classes of bowmen: those who would use the ordinary short bow and those who would use the longbows he had had made that winter. According to history the English longbowmen of medieval times had been without equal in the range and accuracy of their arrows and such extra-powerful weapons should eliminate close-range stalking of woods goats and afford better protection from unicorns.
The longbows worked so well that by mid-spring he could detach Craig and three others from the hunting and send them on a prospecting expedition. Prentiss had said Ragnarok was devoid of metals but there was the hope of finding small veins the Dunbar Expedition’s instruments had not detected. They would have to find metal or else, in the end, they would go back into a flint axe stage.
Craig and his men returned when the blue star was a sun again and the heat was more than men could walk and work in. They had traveled hundreds of miles in their circuit and found no metals.
“I want to look to the south when fall comes,” Craig said. “Maybe it will be different down there.”
They did not face famine that summer as they had the first summer. The diet of meat and dried herbs was rough and plain but there was enough of it.
Full summer came and the land was again burned and lifeless. There was nothing to do but sit wearily in the shade and endure the heat, drawing what psychological comfort they could from the fact that summer solstice was past and the suns were creeping south again even though it would be many weeks before there was any lessening of the heat. It was then, and by accident, that Lake discovered there was something wrong about the southward movement of the suns.
He was returning from the lookout that day and he realized it was exactly a year since he and the others had walked back to the caves while Bemmon swung on the limb behind them. It was even the same time of day; the blue sun rising in the east behind him and the yellow sun bright in his face as it touched the western horizon before him. He remembered how the yellow sun had been like the front sight of a rifle, set in the deepest V notch of the western hills—
But now, exactly a year later, it was not in the V notch. It was on the north side of the notch.
He looked to the east, at the blue sun. It seemed to him that it, too, was farther north than it had been although with it he had no landmark to check by.
But there was no doubt about the yellow sun: it was going south, as it should at that time of year, but it was lagging behind schedule. The only explanation Lake could think of was one that would mean still another threat to their survival; perhaps greater than all the others combined.
The yellow sun dropped completely behind the north slope of the V notch and he went on to the caves. He found Craig and Anders, the only two who might know anything about Ragnarok’s axial tilts, and told them what he had seen.
“I made the calendar from the data John gave me,” Anders said. “The Dunbar men made observations and computed the length of Ragnarok’s year—I don’t think they would have made any mistake.”
“If they didn’t,” Lake said, “we’re in for something.”
“Each year the north pole tilts toward the sun to give us summer and away from it to give us winter,” Lake said. “Which, of course, you know. But there can be still another kind of axial tilt. On Earth it occurs at intervals of thousands of years. The tilting that produces the summers and winters goes on as usual but as the centuries go by the summer tilt toward the sun grows less, the winter tilt away from it greater. The north pole leans farther and farther from the sun and ice sheets come down out of the north—an Ice Age. Then the north pole’s progression away from the sun stops and the ice sheets recede as it tilts back toward the sun.”
“I see,” Anders said. “And if the same thing is happening here, we’re going away from an ice age but at a rate thousands of times faster than on Earth.”
“I don’t know whether it’s Ragnarok’s tilt, alone, or if the orbits of the suns around each other add effects of their own over a period of years,” Lake said. “The Dunbar Expedition wasn’t here long enough to check up on anything like that.”
“It seemed to me it was hotter this summer than last,” Craig said. “Maybe only my imagination—but it won’t be imagination in a few years if the tilt toward the sun continues.”
“The time would come when we’d have to leave here,” Lake said. “We’d have to go north up the plateau each spring. There’s no timber there—nothing but grass and wind and thin air. We’d have to migrate south each fall.”
“Yes … migrate.” Anders’s face was old and weary in the harsh reflected light of the blue sun and his hair had turned almost white in the past year. “Only the young ones could ever adapt enough to go up the plateau to its north portion. The rest of us … but we haven’t many years, anyway. Ragnarok is for the young—and if they have to migrate back and forth like animals just to stay alive they will never have time to accomplish anything or be more than stone age nomads.”
