Tunnel in the Sky (30 page)

   
The same leaf fibre could be retted and crushed,
   
combed and spun, but the cloth as yet possessed by the colony was not even enough for baby clothes. Bill Kennedy had whittled a loom for Sue and it worked, but neither well nor fast and the width of cloth was under a half meter. Still, Rod mused, it was progress, it was civilization. They had come a long way.

   
The town was stobor-tight now. An adobe wall too high and sheer for any but the giant lions covered the upstream side and the bank, and any lion silly enough to jump it landed on a bed of stakes too wide now for even their mighty leaps-the awning under which Rod lolled was the hide of one that had made that mistake. The wall was pierced by stobor traps, narrow tunnels just big enough for the vicious little beasts and which gave into deep pits, where they could chew on each other like Kilkenny cats- which they did.

   
It might have been easier to divert them around the town, but Rod wanted to kill them; he would not be content until their planet was rid of those vermin.

   
In the meantime the town was safe. Stobor continued to deserve the nickname “dopy joe” except during the dry season and then they did not become dangerous until the annual berserk migration- the last of which had passed without loss of blood; the colony's defenses worked, now that they understood what to defend against. Rod had required mothers and children to sit out the stampede in the cave; the rest sat up two nights and stayed on guard. . . but no blade was wet.

   
Rod thought sleepily that the next thing they needed was paper; Grant had been right. . . even a village was hard to run without writing paper. Besides, they must avoid losing the habit of writing. He wanted to follow up Grant's notion of recording every bit of knowledge the gang possessed. Take logarithms- logarithms might not be used for generations, but when it came time to log a couple of rhythms, then. . . he went to sleep.

   
“You busy, Chief?”

   
Rod looked up at Arthur Nielsen. “Just sleeping a practice I heartily recommend on a warm Sabbath afternoon. What's up, Art? Are Shorty and Doug pushing the bellows alone?”

   
“No. Confounded plug came out and we lost our fire. The furnace is ruined.” Nielsen sat down wearily. He was hot, very red in the face, and looked discouraged. He had a bad burn on a forearm but did not seem to know it. “Rod, what are we doing wrong? Riddle me that.”

   
“Talk to one of the brains. If you didn't know more about it than I do, we'd swap jobs.”

   
“I wasn't really asking. I know two things that are wrong. We can't build a big enough installation and we don't have coal. Rod, we've got to have coal; for cast iron or steel we need coal. Charcoal won't do for anything but spongy wrought iron.”

   
“What do you expect to accomplish overnight, Art? Miracles? You are years ahead of what anybody could ask. You've turned out metal, whether it's wrought iron or uranium. Since you made that spit for the barbecue pit, Margery thinks you are a genius.”

   
“Yes, yes, we've made iron-but it ought to be lots better and more of it. This ore is wonderful . . . the real Lake Superior hematite. Nobody's seen such ore in commercial quantity on Terra in centuries. You ought to be able to breathe on it and make steel. And I could, too, if I had coal. We've got clay, we've got limestone, we've got this lovely ore- but I can't get a hot enough fire.”

   
Rod was not fretted; the colony was getting metal as fast as needed. But Waxie was upset. “Want to knock off and search for coal?”

   
“Uh . . . no, I don't. I want to rebuild that furnace.” Nielsen gave a bitter description of the furnace's origin, habits, and destination.

   
“Who knows most about geology?”

   
“Uh, I suppose I do.”

   
“Who knows next most?”

   
“Why, Doug I guess.

   
“Let's send him out with a couple of boys to find coal. You can have Mick in his place on the bellows- no, wait a minute. How about Bruce?”

   
“Bruce? He won't work.”

   
“Work him. If you work him so hard he runs away and forgets to come back, we won't miss him. Take him, Art, as a favor to me.

   
“Well . . . . okay, if you say so.

   
“Good. You get one bonus out of losing your batch. You won't miss the dance tonight. Art, you shouldn't start a melt so late in the week; you need your day of rest . . . and so do Shorty and Doug.”

   
“I know. But when it's ready to go I want to fire it off.

   
Working the way we do is discouraging; before you can make anything you have to make the thing that makes it- and usually you have to make something else to make that. Futile!”

   
“You don't know what 'futile' means. Ask our 'Department of Agriculture.' Did you take a look at the farm before you came over the wall?”

   
“Well, we walked through it.”

   
“Better not let Cliff catch you, or he'll scalp you. I might hold you for him.”

   
“Humph! A lot of silly grass! Thousands of hectares around just like it.”

   
“That's right. Some grass and a few rows of weeds. The pity is that Cliff will never live to see it anything else. Nor little Cliff. Nevertheless our great grandchildren will eat white bread, Art. But you yourself will live to build precision machinery- you know it can be done, which, as Bob Baxter says, is two-thirds of the battle. Cliff can't live long enough to eat a slice of light, tasty bread. It doesn't stop him.”

 
  
“You should have been a preacher, Rod.” Art stood up and sniffed himself. “I'd better get a bath, or the girls won't dance with me.”

   
“I was just quoting. You've heard it before. Save me some soap.”

   
Caroline hit two bars of Arkansas Traveler, Jimmy slapped his drum, and Roy called, “Square 'em up, folks!” He waited, then started in high, nasal tones:

   
“Honor y'r partners!

   
“Honor y'r corners!

   
“Now all jump up and when y' come down-”

   
Rod was not dancing; the alternate set would be his turn. The colony formed eight squares, too many for a caller, a mouth organ, and a primitive drum all unassisted by amplifying equipment. So half of them babysat and gossiped while the other half danced. The caller and the orchestra were relieved at each intermission to dance the other sets.

   
Most of them had not known how to square-dance. Agnes Pulvermacher had put it over almost single-handed, in the face of kidding and resistance- training callers, training dancers, humming tunes to Caroline, cajoling Jimmy to carve and shrink a jungle drum. Now she had nine out of ten dancing.

   
Rod had not appreciated it at first (he was not familiar with the history of the Mormon pioneers) and had regarded it as a nuisance which interfered with work. Then he saw the colony, which had experienced a bad letdown after the loss in one night of all they had built, an apathy he had not been able to lift- he saw this same colony begin to smile and joke and work hard simply from being exposed to music and dancing.

 
  
He decided to encourage it. He had trouble keeping time and could not carry a tune, but the bug caught him, too; he danced not well but with great enthusiasm.

   
The village eventually limited dances to Sabbath nights, weddings, and holidays- and made them “formal” . . . which meant that women wore grass skirts. Leather shorts, breechclouts, and slacks (those not long since cut up for rags) were not acceptable. Sue talked about making a real square dance dress as soon as she got far enough ahead in her weaving, and a cowboy shirt for her husband . . . but the needs of the colony made this a distant dream.

   
Music stopped, principals changed, Caroline tossed her mouth organ to Shorty, and came over. “Come on, Roddie, let's kick some dust.”

   
“I asked Sue,” he said hastily and truthfully. He was careful not to ask the same girl twice, never to pay marked attention to any female; he had promised himself long ago that the day he decided to marry should be the day he resigned and he was not finding it hard to stay married to his job. He liked to dance with Caroline; she was a popular partner- except for a tendency to swing her partner instead of letting him swing her- but he was careful not to spend much social time with her because she was his right hand, his alter ego.

   
Rod went over and offered his arm to Sue. He did not think about it; the stylized amenities of civilization were returning and the formal politenesses of the dance made them seem natural. He led her out and assisted in making a botch of Texas Star.

   
Later, tired, happy, and convinced that the others in his square had made the mistakes and he had straightened them out, Rod returned Sue to Bill, bowed and thanked him, and went back to the place that was always left for him. Margery and her assistants were passing out little brown somethings on wooden skewers. He accepted one. “Smells good, Marge. What are they?”

   
“Mock Nile birds. Smoked baby-buck bacon wrapped around hamburger. Salt and native sage, pan broiled. You'd better like it; it took us hours.”

   
“Mmmm! I do! How about another?”

   
“Wait and see. Greedy.”

   
“But I need more. I work hardest. I have to keep up my strength.”

   
“That was work I saw you doing this afternoon?” She handed him another.

   
“I was planning. The old brain was buzzing away.

   
“I heard the buzzing. Pretty loud, when you lie on your back.”

   
He snagged a third as she turned away, looked up to catch Jacqueline smiling; he winked and grinned.

   
“Happy, Rod?”

   
“Yes indeedy. How about you, Jackie?”

   
“I've never been happier,” she said seriously.

   
Her husband put an arm around her. “See what the love of a good man can do, Rod?” Jimmy said. “When I found this poor child she was beaten, bedraggled, doing your cooking and afraid to admit her name. Now look at her!- fat and sassy.”

   
“I'm not that fat!”

   
“Pleasingly plump.”

   
Rod glanced up at the cave. “Jackie, remember the night I showed up?”

   
“I'm not likely to forget.”

   
“And the silly notion I had that this was Africa? Tell me- if you had it to do over, would you rather I had been right?”

   
“I never thought about it. I knew it was not.”

   
“Yes, but 'if'? You would have been home long ago.”

   
Her hand took her husband's. “I would not have met James.”

   
“Oh, yes, you would. You had already met me. You could not have avoided it- my best friend.”

   
“Possibly. But I would not change it. I have no yearning to go 'home,' Rod. This is home.”

   
“Me neither,” asserted Jimmy. “You. know what? This colony gets a little bigger- and it's getting bigger fast- Goldie and I are going to open a law office. We won't have any competition and can pick our clients. He'll handle the criminal end, I'll specialize in divorce, and we'll collaborate on corporate skulduggery. We'll make millions. I'll drive a big limousine drawn by eight spanking buck, smoking a big cigar and sneering at the peasants.” He called out, “Right, Goldie?”

   
“Precisely, colleague. I'm making us a shingle: 'Goldstein & Throxton-Get bailed, not jailed!'“

   
“Keerect. But make that: 'Throxton & Goldstein.'“

   
“I'm senior. I've got two more years of law.”

   
“A quibble. Rod, are you going to let this Teller U. character insult an old Patrick Henry man?”

   
“Probably. Jimmy, I don't see how you are going to work this. I don't think we have a divorce law. Let's ask Caroline.”

   
“A trifle. You perform the marriages, Rod; I'll take care of the divorces.”

   
“Ask Caroline what?” asked Caroline.

   
“Do we have a divorce law?”

   
“Huh? We don't even have a getting-married law.”

   
“Unnecessary,” explained Goldstein. “Indigenous in the culture. Besides, we ran out of paper.

   
“Correct, Counselor,” agreed Jimmy.

   
“Why ask?” Caroline demanded. “Nobody is thinking about divorce or I would know before they would.”