Tunnel in the Sky (17 page)

   
“Maybe I'd rather hunt alone! I don't need any help.”

   
“I'm sure you don't. Let's forget it, huh, and get this carcass back to camp.”

   
Caroline did not say anything while they butchered. When they had the waste trimmed away and were ready to pack as much as possible back to the others Rod said, “You lead off. I'll watch behind.”

   
“Rod?”

   
“Huh?”

   
“I'm sorry”

   
“What? Oh, forget it.”

   
“I won't ever do it again. Look, I'll tell everybody you made the kill.”

   
He stopped and put a hand on her arm. “Why tell anybody anything? It's nobody's business how we organize our hunt as long as we bring home the meat.”

   
“You're still angry with me.”

   
“I never was angry,” he lied. “I just don't want us to get each other crossed up.”

   
“Roddie, I'll never cross you up again! Promise.”

   
Girls stayed in the majority to the end of the week. The cave, comfortable for three, adequate for twice that number, was crowded for the number that was daily accumulating. Rod decided to make it a girls' dormitory and moved the males out into the open on the field at the foot of the path up the shale. The spot was unprotected against weather and animals but it did guard the only access to the cave. Weather was no problem; protection against animals was set up as well as could be managed by organizing a night watch whose duty it was to keep fires burning between the bluff and the creek on the upstream side and in the bottleneck downstream. Rod did not like the arrangements, but they were the best he could do at the time. He sent Bob Baxter and Roy Kilroy downstream to scout for caves and Caroline and Margery Chung upstream for the same purpose. Neither party was successful in the one-day limit he had imposed; the two girls brought back another straggler.

   
A group of four boys came in a week after Jim's shirt had been requisitioned; it brought the number up to twenty-five and shifted the balance to more boys than girls. The four newcomers could have been classed as men rather than boys, since they were two or three years older than the average. Three of the four classes in this survival-test area had been about to graduate from secondary schools; the fourth class, which included these four, came from Outlands Arts College of Teller University.

   
“Adult” is a slippery term. Some cultures have placed adult age as low as eleven years, others as high as thirty-five-and some have not recognized any such age as long as an ancestor remamed alive. Rod did not think of these new arrivals as senior to him. There were already a few from Teller U. in the group, but Rod was only vaguely aware Which ones they were- they fitted in. He was too busy with the snowballing problems of his growing colony to worry about their backgrounds on remote Terra.

   
The four were Jock McGowan, a brawny youth who seemed all hands and feet, his younger brother Bruce, and Chad Ames and Dick Burke. They had arrived late in the day and Rod had not had time to get acquainted, nor was there time the following morning, as a group of four girls and five boys poured in on them unexpectedly. This had increased his administrative problems almost to the breaking point; the cave would hardly sleep four more females. It was necessary to find, or build, more shelter.

   
Rod went over to the four young men lounging near the cooking fire. He squatted on his heels and asked, “Any of you know anything about building?”

   
He addressed them all, but the others waited for Jock McGowan to speak. “Some,” Jock admitted. “I reckon I could build anything I wanted to.”

   
“Nothing hard,” Rod explained. “Just stone walls. Ever tried your hand at masonry?”

   
“Sure. What of it?”

   
“Well, here's the idea. We've got to have better living arrangements right away- we've got people pouring out of our ears. The first thing we are going to do is to throw a wall from the bluff to the creek across this flat area. After that we will build huts, but the first thing is a kraal to stop dangerous animals.”

   
McGowan laughed. “That will be some wall. Have you seen this dingus that looks like an elongated cougar?

   
One of those babies would go over your wall before you could say 'scat.'“

   
“I know about them,” Rod admitted, “and I don't like them.” He rubbed the long white scars on his left arm. “They probably could go over any wall we could build. So we'll rig a surprise for them.” He picked up a twig and started drawing in the dirt. “We build the wall and bring it around to here. Then, inside for about six meters, we set up sharpened poles. Anything comes over the wall splits its gut on the poles.”

   
Jock McGowan looked at the diagram. “Futile.”

    
“Silly,” agreed his brother.

   
Rod flushed but answered, “Got a better idea?”

   
“That's beside the point.”

   
“Well,” Rod answered slowly, “unless somebody comes down with a better scheme, or unless we find really good caves, we've got to fortify this spot the best we can . . . so we'll do this. I'm going to set the girls to cutting and sharpening stakes. The rest of us will start on the wall. If we tear into it we ought to have a lot of it built before dark. Do you four want to work together? There will be one party collecting rock and another digging clay and making clay mortar. Take your choice.”

   
Again three of them waited. Jock McGowan lay back and laced his hands under his head. “Sorry. I've got a date to hunt today.”

   
Rod felt himself turning red. “We don't need a kill today,” he said carefully.

   
“Nobody asked you, youngster.”

   
Rod felt the cold tenseness he always felt in a hunt He was uncomfortably aware that an audience had gathered. He tried to keep his voice steady and said, “Maybe I've made a mistake. I-”

   
“You have.”

   
“I thought you four had teamed with the rest of us. Well?”

   
“Maybe. Maybe not.”

   
“You'll have to fish or cut bait. If you join, you work like anybody else. If not- well, you're welcome to breakfast and stop in again some time. But be on your way. I won't have you lounging around while everybody else, is working.”

   
Jock McGowan sucked his teeth, dug at a crevice with his tongue. His hands were still locked back of his head. “What you don't understand, sonny boy, is that nobody gives the McGowans orders. Nobody. Right, Bruce?”

   
“Right, Jock.”

   
“Right, Chad? Dick?”

   
The other two grunted approval. McGowan continued to stare up at the sky. “So,” he said softly, “I go where I want to go and stay as long as I like. The question is not whether we are going to join up with you, but what ones am going to let team with us. But not you, sonny boy; you are still wet behind your ears.

   
“Get up and get Qut of here!” Rod started to stand up. He was wearing Colonel Bowie, as always, but he did not reach for it. He began to straighten up from squatting.

   
Jock McGowan's eyes flicked toward his brother. Rod was hit low. . . and found himself flat on his face with his breath knocked out. He felt the sharp kiss of a knife against his ribs; he held still. Bruce called out, “How about it, Jock?”

   
Rod could not see Jock McGowan. But he heard him answer, “Just keep him there.”

   
“Right, Jock.”

   
Jock McGowan was wearing both gun and knife. Rod now heard him say, “Anybody want to dance? Any trouble out of the rest of you lugs?”

   
Rod still could not see Jock, but he could figure from the naked, startled expressions of a dozen others that McGowan must have rolled to his feet and covered them with his gun. Everybody in camp carried knives; most had guns as well and Rod could see that Roy Kilroy was wearing his- although most guns were kept when not in use in the cave in a little arsenal which Carmen superintended.

   
But neither guns nor knives were of use; it had happened too fast, shifting from wordy wrangling to violence with no warning. Rod could see none of his special friends from where he was; those whom he could see did not seem disposed to risk death to rescue him.

   
Jock McGowan said briskly, “Chad- Dick- got 'em all covered?”

   
“Right, Skipper.”

   
“Keep 'em that way while I take care of this cholo.” His hairy legs appeared in front of Rod's face. “Pulled his teeth, Bruce?”

   
“Not yet.”

   
“I'll do it. Roll over, sonny boy, and let me at your knife. Let him turn over, Bruce.”

   
Bruce McGowan eased up on Rod and Jock bent down. As he reached for Rod's knife a tiny steel flower blossomed in Jock's side below his ribs. Rod heard nothing, not even the small sound it must have made when it struck. Jock straightened up with a shriek, clutched at his side.

   
Bruce yelled, Jock! What's the matter?”

   
“They got me.” He crumpled to the ground like loose clothing.

   
Rod still had a man with a knife on his back but the moment was enough; he rolled and grabbed in one violent movement and the situation was reversed, with Bruce's right wrist locked in Rod's fist, with Colonel Bowie threatening Bruce's face.

   
A loud contralto voice sang out, “Take it easy down there! We got you covered.”

   
Rod glanced up. Caroline stood on the shelf at the top of the path to the cave, with a rifle at her shoulder. At the downstream end of the shelf Jacqueline sat with her little dart gun in her lap; she was frantically pumping up again. She raised it, drew a bead on some one past Rod's shoulder.

   
Rod called out, “Don't shoot!” He looked around. “Drop it, you two!”

   
Chad Ames and Dick Burke dropped their guns. Rod added, “Roy! Grant Cowper! Gather up their toys. Get their knives, too.” He turned back to Bruce McGowan, pricked him under the chin. “Let's have your knife.” Bruce turned it loose; Rod took it and got to his feet.

   
Everyone who had been up in the cave was swarming down, Caroline in the lead. Jock McGowan was writhing on the ground, face turned blue and gasping in the sort of paralysis induced by the poison used on darts. Bob Baxter hurried up, glanced at him, then said to Rod, “I'll take care of that cut in your ribs in a moment.” He bent over Jock McGowan.

   
Caroline said indignantly, “You aren't going to try to save him?”

   
“Of course.”

   
“Why? Let's chuck him in the stream.”

    
Baxter glanced at Rod. Rod felt a strong urge to order Caroline's suggestion carried out. But he answered, “Do what you can for him, Bob. Where's Jack? Jack- you've got antidote for your darts, haven't you? Get it.”

   
Jacqueline looked scornfully at the figure on the ground. “What for? He's not hurt.”

   
“Huh?”

   
“Just a pin prick. A practice dart- that's all I keep in Betsey. My hunting darts are put away so that nobody can hurt themselves- and I didn't have time to get them.”

   
She prodded Jock with a toe. “He's not poisoned. He's scaring himself to death.”

   
Caroline chortled and waved the rifle she carried. “And this one is empty. Not even a good club.”

   
Baxter said to Jackie, “Are you sure? The reactions
 
look typical.”

   
“Sure I'm sure! See the mark on the end sticking out? A target dart.”

   
Baxter leaned over his patient, started slapping his face. “Snap out of it, McGowan! Stand up. I want to get that dart out of you.”

   
McGowan groaned and managed to stand. Baxter took the dart between thumb and forefinger, jerked it free; Jock yelled. Baxter slapped him again. “Don't you faint on me,” he growled. 'you're lucky. Let it drain and you'll be all right.” He turned to Rod. “You're next.”

   
“Huh? There's nothing the matter with me.”

   
“That stuff on your ribs is paint, I suppose.” He looked around. “Carmen, get my kit.”

   
“I brought it down.”

   
“Good. Rod, sit down and lean forward. This is going to hurt a little.”

   
It did hurt. Rod tried to chat to avoid showing that he minded it. “Carol,” he asked, “I don't see how you and Jackie worked out a plan so fast. That was smooth.”