Tunnel in the Sky

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 th
e 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.”

  “We weren’t talking about that,” Rod explained. “Jackie said that she had no wish to go back to Terra and Jimmy was elaborating. Uselessly, as usual.”

  Caroline stared. “Why would anybody want to go back?”

  “Sure,” agreed Jimmy. “This is the place. No income tax. No traffic, no crowds, no commercials, no telephones. Seriously, Rod, every one here was aiming for the Outlands or we wouldn’t have been taking a survival test. So what difference does it make? Except that we’ve got everything sooner.” He squeezed his wife’s hand. “I was fooling about that big cigar; I’m rich now, boy, rich!”

  Agnes and Curt had drawn into the circle, listening. Agnes nodded and said, “For once you aren’t joking, Jimmy. The first months we were here I cried myself to sleep every night, wondering if they would ever find us. Now I know they never will—and I don’t care! I wouldn’t go back if I could; the only thing I miss is lipstick.”

  Her husband’s laugh boomed out. “There you have the truth, Rod. The fleshpots of Egypt…put a cosmetics counter across this creek and every woman here will walk on water.”

  “That’s not fair, Curt! Anyhow, you promised to make lipstick.”

  “Give me time.”

  Bob Baxter came up and sat down by Rod. “Missed you at the meeting this morning, Rod.”

  “Tied up. I’ll make it next week.”

  “Good.” Bob, being of a sect which did not require ordination, had made himself chaplain as well as medical officer simply by starting to hold meetings. His un-dogmatic ways were such that Christian, Jew, Monist, or Moslem felt at ease; his meetings were well attended.

  “Bob, would you go back?”

  “Go where, Caroline?”

  “Back to Terra.”

  “Yes.”

  Jimmy looked horrified. “Boil me for breakfast! Why?”

  “Oh, I’d want to come back! But I need to graduate from medical school.” He smiled shyly. “I may be the best surgeon in the neighborhood, but that isn’t saying much.”

  “Well…” admitted Jimmy, “I see your point. But you already suit us. Eh, Jackie?”

  “Yes, Jimmy.”

  “It’s my only regret,” Bob went on. “I’ve lost ones I should have saved. But it’s a hypothetical question. ‘Here we rest.’”

  The question spread. Jimmy’s attitude was overwhelmingly popular, even though Bob’s motives were respected. Rod said goodnight; he heard them still batting it around after he had gone to bed; it caused him to discuss it with himself.

  He had decided long ago that they would never be in touch with Earth; he had not thought of it for—how long?—over a year. At first it had been mental hygiene, protection of his morale. Later it was logic: a delay in recall of a week might be a power failure, a few weeks could be a technical difficulty—but months on months was cosmic disaster; each day added a cipher to the infinitesimal probability that they would ever be in touch again.

  He was now able to ask himself: was this what he wanted?

  Jackie was right; this was home. Then he admitted that he liked being big frog in a small puddle, he loved his job. He was not meant to be a scientist, nor a scholar, he had never wanted to be a businessman—but what he was doing suited him…and he seemed to do it well enough to get by.

  “‘Here we rest!’”

  He went to sleep in a warm glow.

  Cliff wanted help with the experimental crops. Rod did not take it too seriously; Cliff always wanted something; given his head he would have everybody working dawn to dark on his farm. But it was well to find out what he wanted—Rod did not underrate the importance of domesticating plants; that was basic for all colonies and triply so for them. It was simply that he did not know much about it.

  Cliff stuck his head into the mayor’s hut. “Ready?”

  “Sure.” Rod got his spear. It was no longer improvised but bore a point patiently sharpened from steel salvaged from Braun’s Thunderbolt. Rod had tried wrought iron but could not get it to hold an edge. “Let’s pick up a couple of boys and get a few stobor.”

  “Okay.”

  Rod looked around. Jimmy was at his potter’s wheel, kicking the treadle and shaping clay with his thumb. “Jim! Quit that and grab your pike. We’re going to have some fun.”

  Throxton wiped at sweat. “You’ve talked me into it.”

  They added Kenny and Mick, then Cliff led them upstream. “I want you to look at the animals.”

  “All right
,” agreed Rod. “Cliff, I had been meaning to speak to you. If you are going to raise those brutes inside the wall, you’ll have to be careful about their droppings. Carol has been muttering.”

  “Rod, I can’t do everything! And you can’t put them outside, not if you expect them to live.”

  “Sure, sure! Well, we’ll get you more help, that’s the only—Just a second!”

  They were about to pass the last hut; Bruce McGowan was stretched in front of it, apparently asleep. Rod did not speak at once; he was fighting down rage. He wrestled with himself, aware that the next moment could change his future, damage the entire colony. But his rational self was struggling in a torrent of anger, bitter and self-righteous. He wanted to do away with this parasite, destroy it. He took a deep breath and tried to keep his mouth from trembling.

  “Bruce!” he called softly.

  McGowan opened his eyes. “Huh?”

  “Isn’t Art working his plant today?”

  “Could be,” Bruce admitted.

  “Well?”

  “‘Well’ what? I’ve had a week and it’s not my dish. Get somebody else.”

  Bruce wore his knife, as did each of them; a colonist was more likely to be caught naked than without his knife. It was the all-purpose tool, for cutting leather, preparing food, eating, whittling, building, basketmaking, and as make-do for a thousand other tools; their wealth came from knives, arrows were now used to hunt—but knives shaped the bows and arrows.

  But a knife had not been used by one colonist against another since that disastrous day when Bruce’s brother had defied Rod. Over the same issue, Rod recalled; the wheel had turned full circle. But today he would have immediate backing if Bruce reached for his knife.

  But he knew that this must not be settled by five against one; he alone must make this dog come to heel, or his days as leader were numbered.

  It did not occur to Rod to challenge Bruce to settle it with bare hands. Rod had read many a historical romance in which the hero invited someone to settle it “man to man,” in a stylized imitation fighting called “boxing.” Rod had enjoyed such stories but did not apply them to himself any more than he considered personally the sword play of The Three Musketeers; nevertheless, he knew what “boxing” meant—they folded their hands and struck certain restricted blows with fists. Usually no one was hurt.