Jem

  Why not?

  But thank God for poppa and his parting gift! A metric ton of ammunition had been blown up, but there were metric tons left untouched by virtue of the spare supplies in the final ship. Tents burned and food was destroyed. But there was more. If Cappy's airplane had been stitched across by machine-gun fire, there were spare parts to fix it. And that greatest of gifts, the six kilograms of 239Pu in its carefully crafted sheaths—that was still intact. The dead were irreplaceable, of course. Worse still were the casualties, because some of them were not merely a loss but a debit. Nguyen Dao Tree, who had lost a leg and a lot of blood to go with it; six persons badly burned, two others with serious abdominal wounds—a whole cluster of damages for Cheech Arkashvili to try to repair. For each one of the worst off, there was the cost of an able-bodied person to tend him. There was no tent still standing big enough to hold them all, and so Cheech had put them onto cots dragged out of the damaged tents, out in the open. Some of the bedding was scorched, and if it began to rain again they would be in trouble. But for now they were as well off as they were likely to be, Margie thought as she moved among them.

  One of them got up as Margie approached: Lieutenant Kristianides, one whole side of her body in gauze and antiburn dressing. But functioning. "Colonel," she said. "I had to leave the radio—"

  Marge glanced at the doctor, who shook her head. "Get back in bed, Kris. Tell me about it later."

  "No, I'm all right. When they shot the tent up I ran out. But I left the tape going. I was getting their chatter, only it was in all different languages."

  "Thanks. Now get back in bed," Marge ordered, and looked around. "Dalehouse, front and center!" she called. "Check the radio shack. If the tape's still working, give me a yell."

  He didn't look too good himself, she thought as he put down the tray of dressings and headed up the hill without a word—but then, none of them did. Especially herself. Margie's own tent had been totaled, and she was wearing fatigues belonging to a woman who would never again need them— not unfair, but she had been a taller and fatter woman than Marge Menninger.

  When Dalehouse called her, she had forgotten about the tapes. But she went up to the shack, which was unburned and not really harmed except for bullet holes, commandeering Ana Dimitrova on the way. The tape was voice-actuated, and Dalehouse had already found the right place to begin. Ana put on the earphones and began to translate.

  "First one of the pilots says, 'On target,' and the base acknowledges. Then there are some carrier noises, as though they were going to transmit and changed their minds, and then the base says, 'Suspend operations at once. Do not attack.' And one of the pilots, I think it is the Egyptian, says in a different Arab dialect, 'Strike already in progress. We have taken out their weapons dump. Body count around twenty-five.' Then there is some mumbling that I cannot make out, as though they are talking at the base with the transmitter on but not close enough to pick it up. And then the base says, 'Urgent. Suspend operations immediately.' And then the other pilot, the Irishman, says they are observing from over the water, waiting for instructions, and then the base orders them to return without further attack. That is all there is on the tape until they get landing instructions later on."

  "That's it?" Margie asked.

  "As I have said, colonel, yes. There is nothing else."

  "Now, why would they change their minds in the middle?" Margie asked. Neither Dalehouse nor Dimitrova offered an answer. She hadn't expected one. It didn't matter. The Greasies had declared war, and if they backed out in the middle of it that was their problem, not hers. She would not back out. To Marge Menninger, the attack on her base—her base!— answered all questions right there. Why didn't really matter. The only question was how—how to carry the fight to them, and win it.

  "Can you dig with that shoulder?" she asked Dalehouse.

  "I guess so. It's not bleeding."

  "Then go help Kappelyushnikov dig graves. Dimitrova, you're a radio operator now. No transmissions. Just listen. If the Greasies say anything, I want to hear about it right away."

  She left them and headed for the surviving latrine. She didn't particularly need to go to the bathroom; she just wanted to be alone for a moment to clarify her thoughts. She ranked her way to the head of the line, closed the door, and sat there smoking a cigarette and staring into space.

  There was no question in her mind that she could win this war, because she had some powerful cards to play. The plutonium store was one of them. The other was Major Vandemeer's little dispatch case. There were still four birds in orbit; one could hit the Greasy main camp, and another their Farside base, anytime she gave the order—and that would be that.

  The trouble was, she didn't want to destroy the Greasy facilities. She wanted to acquire them. The birds and the bomb were overkill, like trying to take care of a mosquito with a mortar.

  No. It would have to be a straight overland operation. Maybe the plutonium, if it could be placed exactly right. Not the missiles. It was a pity the Greasies had launched their preemptive strike before she was quite ready to launch hers. But not a disaster. The worst thing about the raid was that her cadre of effectives had been seriously reduced. How was she going to mount her retaliatory strike without grunts?

  Marge Menninger had just taken the only decision that gave the human race a future on Jem, even though she didn't know it.

  "The only good thing about all this," Dalehouse said to Kappelyushnikov, "is that most of the casualties were military. At least now we can get on with the real business of the expedition."

  Kappelyushnikov grunted and threw a few more spadefuls of dirt before he answered. "Of course, is so," he said, pausing and wiping sweat off his face. "Only one question. What is real business of expedition?"

  "To survive! And to preserve. God knows what's happening on Earth. We may be all that's left of the human race, and if anything's going to be left of, what, maybe five thousand years of science and literature and music and art, it's here."

  "Very discouraging amount of responsibility for two grave-diggers," Kappelyushnikov commented. "You are of course right, Danny. We have saying in Soviet Union: longest journey begins with single step. What step do we take now?"

  "Well—"

  "No, wait, was rhetorical question. First step is apparent.

  Have finished covering up graves of now absent friends, so you, Danny, please step up to colonel's headquarters and report burial services can begin."

  He jammed his spade into the dirt and sat down, looking more despondent than Dalehouse had ever seen him.

  Dalehouse said, "All right. We're all pretty tired and shook up, I guess."

  The pilot shook his head, then looked up and grinned. "Am not only tired, dear Danny, am also very Russian. Heavy load to carry. We have other saying in Soviet Union: in thousand years, what difference will it make? But now I tell you the truth, Danny. All sayings are bullshit. I know what we do, you and I and all of us. We do the best we can. Is not much, but is all there is."

  Dalehouse laid down his spade and trudged up the hill to the headquarters shack, thinking hard. A heavy responsibility! When you looked at it carefully, there was no way to preserve everything; so much that was irreplaceable would inevitably be lost—probably already was lost. There was not much chance that the Arc de Triomphe and the British Museum and the Parthenon had all survived, not to mention some billions of fairly irreplaceable human beings. It was hard for Danny to accept that he would never again see a ballet or listen to a concert. Or fly in a clamjet or drink in a revolving restaurant on top of a skyscraper. So much was gone forever! And so much more would inevitably vanish as they tried to rebuild....

  Yet there was one great asset not yet destroyed: hope. They could survive. They could rebuild. They could even rebuild in a better way, learning from the mistakes of the past, on this virgin planet—

  There was a knot of people gathering around the headquarters shack, and Marge Menninger, with a couple of her aides, was trotting up t
o join them. Dalehouse hurried his pace and arrived in time to hear Ana saying, "This message just came in, Colonel Menninger. I will play the tape for you."

  "Do it," snapped Marge, out of breath and exhausted

  Dalehouse moved closer to her. She seemed near to collapse. But as the tape player hummed and scratched, she pulled herself together and stood listening intently.

  Danny recognized the voice. It was the black air vice-marshal, Pontrefact; and what he said did not take very long.

  "This is an official message on behalf of the Fuel Exporting Powers to the Food camp. We offer an immediate and permanent armistice. We propose that you remain within twenty kilometers of your camp, in the direction toward ours, and we will observe the same limits from ours. We request an answer within one hour."

  There was a pause, as though he was shuffling papers in his hand, and then the rich Jamaican tones began again.

  "As you are aware, our air strike against your camp was provoked by your destruction of our satellites. It was ordered only after full exploration of all alternatives. Our intention was to wipe your base out completely. However, as you are also aware, we terminated the strike after inflicting relatively minor damage on your base. The reason for this decision is the reason for this offer of armistice now.

  "Our star, Kung, is unstable. It is about to flare.

  "We have been aware for some time that its radiation level has been fluctuating. Within the past twenty-four hours it has become more extreme. While the air strike was in progress we received information from our astrophysicists that a major flare will occur in the near future. We do not have an exact time. Our understanding is that it may occur as early as forty-eight hours from now, and almost surely within the next two weeks. If you accept our offer of armistice, we will transmit all technical data at once, and your people can make their own judgments."

  The voice hesitated, then resumed in a less formal way. "We have no knowledge of conditions on Earth at present and suppose you have none as well. But it is clear that for all practical purposes we on Jem are alone in the universe at this time. We think we will need all the resources we have to prepare our camp for this flare. If we continue to fight, we suppose we will all die. I do not propose that we work together. But I propose that we stop fighting, at least until this crisis is past." Another pause. Then: "Please respond within an hour. God help us all."

  Margie closed her eyes for a moment while everyone waited. Then she opened them again and said, "Call them back, Dimitrova. Tell them we accept their offer, ask for their technical data at once, and say we will be in contact again when we have something to say. Folks, the war is over."

  Ten minutes later, the whole camp knew it. Margie had gone on the public-address system, played the tape from Marshal Pontrefact, and broken the news of the disaster and the truce. She had called a general meeting for 0300 hours, about ninety minutes from then, and ordered Alexis Harcourt, the nearest thing they had left to an astronomer, to go over the data from the Greasies and report before that time. Then she turned to Danny Dalehouse and said, "I don't have a bed anymore, but I need about an hour's sleep real bad."

  "There's a spare in my tent."

  "I was hoping you'd ask." She peered up toward the sullen glow in the clouds where Kung was hiding and shook her head. "It's been a son of a bitch of a day," she said as they picked their way toward the tent row. "And it's not over yet. Know what I'm going to do at the meeting?"

  "Am I supposed to guess?"

  "No way, Danny. You'd never make it. I'm going to announce the impending retirement of Colonel Marjorie Menninger from active service."

  "What?"

  "Pick your teeth up, Danny, and don't just stand there," she advised, tugging him along. "We're going to convert this place to civilian government, effective as soon as the emergency is over. Or maybe before. I don't care. Maybe all you guys who're bitching about the army way of doing things are right. I have to say that my way hasn't been working out too well, everything considered. So I think we're going to need elections for a new government, and if you want my advice you'll run."

  "For what? Why me? Margie, you get me all mixed up!"

  "Why you? Because you're practically the only original settler left, you know that? Just you and Gappy. Because nobody hates your guts. Because you're the only person in the camp who has the age and experience to handle the job of running things and who isn't a soldier. Don't let me pressure you. It's your decision. But you've got my vote. If," she added in a different tone, "anything we decide makes any difference at all now."

  They were at his tent, and Marge paused at the flap, staring up at the sky. "Oh, shit," she said, "it's beginning to rain." It was—big drops, with promise of more behind them.

  "The casualties!" he said.

  "Yeah. We're going to have to get them under cover. And that's a pity, Danny, because I was kind of hoping we could catch us a little R and R before the meeting."

  In spite of everything, Danny could not help himself. He laughed out loud. "Marjorie Menninger, you are some kind of strange. Get in there and get some sleep." But before she turned, he put his arms around her for a moment. "I never would have thought it of you," he said. "What converted you to civilian values?"

  "Who's converted?" Then she said, "Well, maybe it was that fucking Krinpit. If it hadn't been for him, you'd've been burying me a little while ago, too. I didn't trust him, either, but he gave his silly life to save me."

  With so few of them left, they didn't really need the PA system to cope with the fifty-five or sixty persons listening, but they hooked in one speaker for the benefit of the casualties who were well enough to hear, in their tents down the hill. The rest sat or stood on the wet planks of the dance floor in the sullen, steady rain while Marge Menninger spoke to them from the little dais. She turned the stage over to Harcourt.

  He said, "A lot of the data from the Greasies isn't astronomy, it's geology. They've done a lot of digging. They say there seem to be flare episodes every twenty or thirty years. There's no set pattern, but by the amount of ash and char, they think your average flare involves about a seventy-five percent increase in radiation spread out over a period of a week or more. That's enough to kill us. Partly heat. Mostly ionizing radiation.

  "Now, when does it happen? Their best guess is ten days, —give or take ten days." There was a murmur from the audience, and he nodded. "Sorry about that, but I don't have the training to make it any closer than they do; in fact, I'm only taking their word. The picture I get is of slowly increasing heat over a period of a couple of weeks. I think we've been having that, and maybe it's why the weather has been so lousy. Then the flare. Surface temperature goes up to maybe three-fifty degrees. That's Kelvin—say, somewhere between where we are now and the boiling point of water. I don't think it goes over that, not for very long, anyway. But there are peak flares, and they're like striking a match. If anything can burn, it will. Apparently the forests burn, but maybe not right away— they'd probably have to dry out first. Then the flare recedes, the temperature comes down, the air drops out moisture, and you get rain to put out the fires. Probably a hell of a lot of rain, over a period of weeks or months. Then you're back to normal."

  "Only dead," somebody called out from the audience. Harcourt spread his hands defensively.

  "Maybe not. If you're in shelter, you might survive." He started to continue, then stopped himself. Margie came up beside him.

  "You don't sound too confident."

  "I'm not. The—ah, the geological record doesn't inspire much confidence. The Greasies took cores from more than a hundred different sites, and they all showed the same pattern —recurring char and soil, back thousands of years."

  Dalehouse stood up. "Alex," he called, "why hasn't it killed off everything on the surface of Jem long ago?"

  "You're asking for a guess? I guess it has. At least all the vegetation. It burns off, then regrows from roots, most likely. Seeds probably would survive, though. And those drenching rains
after each flare would give the new growth a good start in fertile soil—the char's great fertilizer; primitive man used to slash and burn to get his farms started, back on Earth. I don't know about the animals. I'd guess the Creepies would be all right in their tunnels if they didn't starve to death waiting for new growth to live on. Probably a lot of them do. Maybe the same for the Krinpit, because it would take a lot to kill them off. They don't have to worry about being blinded by the radiation, because they don't have any eyes to begin with. And those shells are pretty good armor for their vital organs. Probably get a lot of mutations, but in the long run that's as much good as it is bad for the race."

  "What about Charlie?"

  "I don't know. That's harder. I guess a really good flare might wipe out damn near all the adults. But that's when they spawn, and the spawn might survive—also, no doubt, with a lot of mutations. I'd say evolution moves pretty fast here."

  "Well, look," Margie cut in, "if all these things can survive, why can't we?"

  Harcourt shrugged. "They're adapted, we're not. Besides, I'm talking about races surviving, not individuals. Maybe as few as one percent live through it. Maybe less." He looked around the audience. "One percent of us leaves how many?" he asked.

  "Yeah," Margie said slowly. "Well, I think we get the picture. We need to get under something big enough to stop both heat and radiation, and we need to do it in a hurry. Got any ideas on what we can make a roof out of?"

  Harcourt hesitated. "Not a clue," he confessed. "Certainly the tents won't do it. Oh, and I should mention the winds. They probably get pretty fierce, with all that insolation. So anything we did build would have to stand up to maybe two-hundred-kilometer-an-hour hurricanes. Maybe more. I, uh, I thought, for a minute of using the Creepies' tunnels, and that might work—for some of us, anyway. But I doubt more than ten percent of us would live through maybe two or three weeks underground without very good ventilation and certainly without air conditioning—and that air down there is going to get hot. "