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MacAran suspected that the quiet was temporary, the result of shock, and that sooner or later therewould be fresh storms, but for the moment everyone had simply accepted the urgent necessity to jointogether to repair damages and assure survival against the unguessed harshness of the unknown winter. MacAran himself was not sure how he felt about it, but he had in any case been ready for a colony, andsecretly it seemed to him that it might be more interesting to colonize a "wild" planet than one extensivelyterraformed and worked over by Earth Expeditionary. But he hadn't been prepared to be cut off from themainstream of Earth--no starships, no contact or communication with the rest of the Galaxy, perhaps forgenerations, perhaps forever.
 
That
hurt. He hadn't accepted it yet; he knew he might never accept it.

He went into the building where Moray's office was located, read the sign on the door (DON'T KNOCK, COME IN) and went in to find Moray talking to an unknown girl who must be, from herdress, one of the New Hebrides people.

"Yes, yes, dear, I know you want a work assignment to the garden, but your history shows you

worked in art and ceramics and we're going to need you there.

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Do you realize that the first craft developed in almost every civilization is pottery? In any case, didn't Isee a report that you were pregnant?"

"Yes, the Annunciation Ceremony for me was yesterday. But our kind of people always work right

up to delivery."

Moray smiled faintly. "I'm glad you feel well enough to go on working. But women in colonies are

never permitted to do manual work."

"Article four--"

"Article four," said Moray, and his face was grim, "was developed for Earth, Earth conditions. Get wise to the facts of life on planets with alien gravity, light and oxygen content, Alanna. This planet is one of the lucky ones; oxygen on the high side, light gravity, no anoxic or crush-syndrome babies. But even on the best planets, just the
 
change
 
does it, and it's a grim statistic for a population as low as ours. Half the women are sterile for five to ten years, half the fertile women miscarry for five to ten years. And half the live births die before they're a month old for five to ten years. Colony women have to be
pampered
 
, Alanna. Co-operate, or you'll be sedated and hospitalized. If you want to be one of the lucky ones with a live baby instead of a messed-up dead one, co-operate, and start doing it now."

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When she had gone away with a slip for the hospital, looking dazed and shocked, MacAran tookher place before the cluttered desk, and Moray grimaced up at him. "I take it you heard that. How'd youlike
 
my
job--scaring the hell out of young pregnant girls?"

"Not much." MacAran was thinking of Camilla, also carrying a child. So she was not sterile. But one chance in two that she would miscarry--and then a fifty-fifty chance that her child would die. Grim statistics, and they sent a clutch of horror through him. Had she been advised of this? Did she know? Was she co-operating? He didn't know; she had been locked up with the Captain, hovering over the computer, for half the last tenday.

Moray said, frowning slightly, "Come out of the clouds. You're one of the lucky ones,

MacAran--you're not technologically unemployed."

"Huh?"

"You're a geologist and we need you doing what you were trained for. You heard me tell Alanna

that one of the first industries we need,

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in a hurry, at that, is
pottery
 
. For pottery, you need china clay, or a good substitute for it. We also need reliable building stone--we need concrete or cement of some sort--we need limestone, or something with the same properties; and we need silicates for glass, various ores… in fact, what we need is a geological assay of this part of the planet, and we need it before the winter sets in. You aren't priority one,

Mac--but you're in category two or three. Can you draw up a plan for an assay and exploration in the next day or two, and tell me roughly how many men you'll need for sampling and testing?"

"Yes, I can do that easy enough. But I thought you said we couldn't go in for a technological

civilization…"

"We can't," Moray told him, "not as Engineer Patrick uses the word. No heavy industry. No mechanized transport. But there's no such thing as a non-technological civilization. Even the cave men had technology--they manufactured flints, or didn't you ever see one of their factory sites? Man is a tool-user--a technician. I never had any notion of starting us out as savages. The question is, which technologies can we manage, especially during the first three or four generations?"

"You plan that far ahead?"

"I have to."

"You said my job wasn't priority one. What's priority one?"

"Food," Moray said realistically. "Again, we're lucky. The soil's arable here--although I suspect marginally, so we're going to have to use fertilizers and composts--and agriculture
 
is
 
possible. I've known planets where the food-securing priority would have taken up so much time that even minimal
 
crafts
 
might have to be postponed for two or three generations. Earth doesn't colonize them, but we could have been marooned on one. There may even be domesticable animals here; MacLeod's on that now. Priority

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two is shelter--and by the way, when you make that 'survey, check some lower slopes for
 
caves
 
. They may be warmer than anything we can build, at least during the winter. After food and shelter come simple crafts--the amenities of life; weaving, pottery, fuel and lights, clothing, music, garden tools, furniture. You get the idea. Go draw up your survey, MacAran, and I'll assign you enough men to carry it out." He gave another of those grim smiles.

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"Like I say; you're one of the lucky ones. This morning I've got to tell a deep--space communications expert with absolutely no other skills, that his job is completely obsolete for at least ten generations, and offer him a choice of agriculture, carpentry, or blacksmithing!"

As MacAran left the office, his thoughts flew again, compulsively, to Camilla. Was this what lay instore for her? No, certainly not, any civilized group of people must have some use for a computer libraryof information! But would Moray, with his grim priorities, see it that way?

He walked through the midday sunlight, pale violet shadows, the sun hanging high and red like aninflamed and bloodshot eye, toward the hospital. In the distance a solitary figure was toiling over rocks,building a low fence, and MacAran looked at Father Valentine, doing his solitary penance. MacAranaccepted, in principle, the theory that the colony could spare no single pair of hands; that Father Valentine could atone for his crimes by useful work more easily than by hanging by the neck until dead;and MacAran, with the memory of his own madness lying heavy on him (
 
how easily he could havekilled the Captain, in his rage of jealousy!
) could not even find it in his heart to shun the priest or feelhorror at him. Captain Leicester's judgment would have done justice to King Solomon; Father Valentinehad been commanded to bury the dead, those he had killed, and the others, to create a graveyard, andenclose it with a fence against wild beasts or desecration, and to build a suitable memorial to the massgrave of those who had died in the crash. MacAran was not certain what useful purpose a graveyardwould serve, except perhaps to remind the Earthmen of how near death lay to life, and how nearmadness lay to sanity. But this work would keep the Father away from the other crewmen and colonists,who might not have the same awareness of how near they might have come to repeating his crime, untilthe memory had mercifully died down a little; and would provide enough hard work and penance tosatisfy even the despairing man's need for punishment.

Somehow the sight of the lonely, bent figure put him out of the mood to keep his other appointmentin the hospital. He walked away toward the woods, passing the garden area where New Hebrideanswere tending long rows of green sprouting plants. Alastair, on his knees,

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was transplanting small green shoots from a flat screened pan; he returned MacAran's wave with a smile.
 
They were happy at the outcome of this, this life would suit them perfectly
 
. Alastair spoke a word to the boy holding the box of plants, got up and loped toward MacAran.

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"The padrõn--Moray--told me you were going to do geological work. What's the chances of finding

materials for glassmaking?"

"Can't say. Why?"

"Climate like this, we need greenhouses," Alastair said, "concentrated sunlight. Something to protect young plants against blizzards. I'm doing what I can with plastic sheets, foil reflectors and ultraviolet, but that's a temporary makeshift. Check natural fertilizers and nitrates, too. The soil here isn't too rich."

"I'll make a note of it," MacAran promised. "Were you a farmer by trade on Earth?"

"Lord, no. Auto mechanic--transit specialist," Alastair grimaced. "The Captain was talking about converting me to a machinist. I'm going to be sittin' up nights praying for whoever it was blew up the damn ship."

"Well, I'll try to find your silicates," MacAran promised, wondering how high, on Moray's austere priorities, the art of glassmaking would come. And what about musical instruments? Fairly high, he'd imagine. Even savages had music and he couldn't imagine life without them, nor, he'd guess, could these members of a singing folk.

If the winter's as bad as it probably will be, music just might keep us all sane, and I'll bet that

Moray--cagey bastard that he is--has that already figured out
.

As if in answer to his thought, one of the girls working in the field raised her voice in low, mournfulsong. Her voice, deep and husky, had a superficial resemblance to Camilla's and the words of the songrang out, in question and sadness, an old sad melody of the Hebrides:

My Caristiona,

Wilt answer my cry?

No answering tonight?

My grief, ah me...

My Caristiona...

Camilla, why do you not come to me, why do you not answer me? Wilt answer my cry… my

grief, ah me …

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Deep my heart is grieving, grieving,

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And my eyes are streaming, streaming...

My Caristiona... wilt answer my cry?

I know you are unhappy, Camilla, but why, why do you not come to me... ?

Camilla came into the hospital slowly and rebelliously, clutching the examination slip. It was acomforting hang-over from ship routine, but when, instead of the familiar face of Medic Chief Di Asturien (
 
at least he speaks Spanish!
) she was confronted with young Ewen Ross, she frowned with irritation.

"Where's the Chief? You haven't the authority to do examinations for Ship personnel!"

"The Chief's operating on that man who was shot in the kneecap during the Ghost Wind; anyway I'm in charge of routine examinations, Camilla. What's the matter?" His round young face was ingratiating, "won't I do? I assure you my credentials are wonderful. Anyhow, I thought we were friends--fellow victims from the first of the Winds! Don't damage my self-esteem!"

Against her wilt she laughed. "Ewen, you rascal, you're impossible. Yes, I guess this is routine. The Chief announced the contraceptive failure a couple of months ago, and I seem to have been one of thevictims. It's just a case of putting in for an abortion."

Ewen whistled softly. "Sorry, Camilla," he said gently, "can't be done."

"But I'm
pregnant
 
!"

"So congratulations or something," he said, "maybe you'll have the first child born here, or something,

unless one of the Commune girls gets ahead of you."

She heard him, frowning, not quite understanding. She said stiffly, "I guess I'll have to take it up with

the Chief after all; you evidently don't understand the rules of the Space Service."

His eyes held a deep pity; he understood all too well. "Di Asturien would give you the same answer,"he said gently. "Surely you know that in the Colonies abortions are performed only to save a life, orprevent the birth of a grossly defective child, and I'm not even sure we have facilities for that here. A highbirth rate is absolutely imperative for at least the first three generations--you

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surely know that women volunteers aren't even accepted for Earth Expeditionary unless they're

childbearing age and sign an agreement to have children?"

"I would be exempt, even so," Camilla flashed, "although I didn't volunteer for the colony at all; I

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was crew. But you know as well as I do that women with advanced scientific degrees are exempt--otherwise no woman with a career she valued would ever go out to the colonies! I'm going to fight this, Ewen! Damn you, I'm not going to accept forced childbearing! No woman is
forced
 
to have a child!"