Darkover Landfall

Chapter ELEVEN

The days of the Wind had spared the garden, MacAran thought. Perhaps some deep survival-instinct had told the maddened colonists that this was their lifeline. Repairs to the hospital were underway, and work crews drafted for manual labor were doing salvage work on the ship--Moray had made it bitterly clear that for many years this would be their only stock of metal for tools and implements. Bit by bit, the interior fabric of the great starship was being cannibalized; furniture from the living quarters and recreation areas was being brought out and converted for use in the dormitory and community buildings, tools from the repair shops, kitchen areas and even the bridge decks were being inventoried by groups of clerical workers. MacAran knew that Camilla was busy checking the computer, trying to discover what programs had been salvaged. Down to the smallest implement, ball-point pens and women's cosmetics in the canteen supplies, everything was being inventoried and rationed. When the supplies of a technologically oriented Earth culture ran out, there would be no more, and Moray made it clear that replacements were already being devised for an orderly transition.

The clearing presented a curious blend, he thought; the small domes constructed with plastic and fiber, damaged in the blizzard and repaired with tougher local woods; the mixed piles of complex machinery, tended and guarded by uniformed crewmen with Chief Engineer Patrick in charge; the people from the New Hebrides Commune working--by their own choice, MacAran understood--in the garden and woods.

He held in his hand two slips of paper--the old habit of posting memoranda still held; he imagined that eventually dwindling paper supplies would phase it out. What would they substitute? Systems of bells coded to each person, as was done in some large department stores

to attract the attention of a particular person? Word of mouth messages? Or would they manage to discover some way to make paper of local products and continue their centuries-long reliance on written memoranda? One of the slips he held told him to check in at the hospital for what was called routine examination; the other asked him to report to Moray's office for work analysis and assignment.

By and large, the announcement that the computer was useless and the ship perforce abandoned had been greeted without much outcry. One or two crewmen had been heard to mutter that whoever did it should be lynched, but there was at the moment no way of discovering either who had wiped the Navigation tapes from the computer, nor of finding out who had dynamited one of the inner drive chambers with an improvised bomb. Suspicion for the latter fell by default on a crewmember who had recently asked admission into the New Hebrides Commune and whose mangled body had been found inside the ship near the explosion site; and everyone was content to let it stay there.

MacAran suspected that the quiet was temporary, the result of shock, and that sooner or later there would be fresh storms, but for the moment everyone had simply accepted the urgent necessity to join together 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, and secretly it seemed to him that it might be more interesting to colonize a "wild" planet than one extensively terraformed and worked over by Earth Expeditionary. But he hadn't been prepared to be cut off from the mainstream of Earth--no starships, no contact or communication with the rest of the Galaxy, perhaps for generations, 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 her dress, 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. Do you realize that the first craft developed in almost every civilization is pottery? In any case, didn't I see 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."

When she had gone away with a slip for the hospital, looking dazed and shocked, MacAran took her place before the cluttered desk, and Moray grimaced up at him. "I take it you heard that. How'd you like 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,

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 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. "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 in store for her? No, certainly not, any civilized group of people must have some use for a computer library of 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 an inflamed 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. MacAran accepted, 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 have killed the Captain, in his rage of jealousy!) could not even find it in his heart to shun the priest or feel horror at him. Captain Leicester's judgment would have done justice to King Solomon; Father Valentine had been commanded to bury the dead, those he had killed, and the others, to create a graveyard, and enclose it with a fence against wild beasts or desecration, and to build a suitable memorial to the mass grave of those who had died in the crash. MacAran was not certain what useful purpose a graveyard would serve, except perhaps to remind the Earthmen of how near death lay to life, and how near madness 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, until the memory had mercifully died down a little; and would provide enough hard work and penance to satisfy 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 appointment in the hospital. He walked away toward the woods, passing the garden area where New Hebrideans were tending long rows of green sprouting plants. Alastair, on his knees,

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.

"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, mournful song. Her voice, deep and husky, had a superficial resemblance to Camilla's and the words of the song rang 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 …

Deep my heart is grieving, grieving,

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 a comforting 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 the victims. 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, or prevent the birth of a grossly defective child, and I'm not even sure we have facilities for that here. A high birth rate is absolutely imperative for at least the first three generations--you

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 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!"

Ewen smiled ruefully at the angry woman. He said, "Sit down, Camilla; be sensible. In the first place, love, the very fact that you have an advanced degree makes you valuable to us. We need your genes a lot more than we need your engineering skills. We won't be needing skills like that for half a dozen generations--if then. But genes for high intelligence and mathematical ability have to be preserved in the gene pool, we can't risk letting them die out."

"Are you trying to tell me I'll be forced to have children? Like some savage woman, some walking womb from the prehistoric planets?" Her face was white with rage. "This is completely unendurable! Every woman on the crew will go out on strike when they hear that!"

Ewen shrugged. "I doubt it," he said. "In the first place, you've got the law wrong. Women are not allowed to volunteer for colonies unless they have intact genes, are of childbearing age and sign an agreement to have children--but women over childbearing age are occasionally accepted if they have medical or scientific degrees. Otherwise the end of your fertile years means the end of your chance to be accepted for a Colony--and do you know how long the waiting lists are for the Colonies? I waited four years; Heather's parents put her name down when she was ten, and she's twenty-three. The Overpopulation laws on Earth mean that some women have been on waiting lists for twelve years to have a second child."

"I can't imagine why they'd bother," Camilla said in disgust "One child ought to be enough for any woman, if she has anything above the neck, unless she's a real neurotic with no independent sense of self-esteem."

"Camilla," Ewen said very gently, "this is biological. Even back in the 20th century, they did experiments on rats and ghetto populations and things, and found that one of the first results of crucial social overcrowding was the failure of maternal behavior. It's a pathology. Man is a rationalizing animal, so sociologists called it "Women's Liberation" and things like that, but what it amounted to was a pathological reaction to overpopulation and overcrowding. Women who couldn't be allowed to have children, had to be given some other work, for the sake of their mental health. But it wears off. Women sign an agreement, when they go to the colonies, to have a minimum of two children; but most of them, once they're out of the crowding of Earth, recover their mental and emotional health, and the average Colony family is four children--which is about right, psychologically speaking. By the time the baby comes, you'll probably have normal hormones too, and make a good mother. If not, well, it will at least have your genes, and we'll give it to some sterile woman to bring up for you. Trust me, Camilla."

"Are you trying to tell me that I've got to have this baby?"

"I sure as hell am," Ewen said, and suddenly his voice went hard, "and others too, provided you can carry them to term. There's a one in two chance that you'll have a miscarriage." Steadily, unflinching, he rehearsed the statistics which MacAran had heard from Moray earlier that same day. "If we're lucky, Camilla, we have fifty-nine fertile women now. Even if they all became pregnant this year, we'll be lucky to have twelve living children... and the viable level for this colony to survive means we've got to bring our numbers up to about four hundred before the oldest women start losing their fertility. It's going to be touch and go, and I have a feeling that any woman who refuses to have as many children as she can physically manage, is going to be awfully damned unpopular. Public Enemy Number One isn't in it"

Ewen's voice was hard, but with the heightened sensitivity he had known ever since the first Wind blasted him wide open to the emotions of others, he realized the hideous pictures that were spinning in Camilla's mind:

not a person, just a thing, a walking womb, a thing used for breeding, my mind gone, my skills useless... just a brood mare...

"It won't be that bad," he said in deep sympathy. "There will be plenty for you to do. But that's the way it's got to be,Camilla. I'm sure it's worse for you than it is for some others, but it's the same for everyone. Our survival depends on it." He looked away from her; he could not face the blast of her agony.

She said, her lips tightening to a hard line, "Maybe it would be better not to survive, under conditions like that."

"I won't discuss that with you until you're feeling better," Ewen said quietly, "it's not worth the breath. I'll set up a prenatal examination for you with Margaret--"

"--I won't!"

Ewen got quickly to his feet. He signaled to a nurse behind her back and gripped her wrist in a hard grip, immobilizing her. A needle went into her arm; she looked at him with angry suspicion, her eyes already glazing slightly.

"What--"

"A harmless sedative. Supplies are short, but we can spare enough to keep you calmed down," Ewen said calmly. "Who's the father, Camilla? MacAran?"

"None of your affair!" she spat at him.

"Agreed, but I ought to know, for genetic records. Captain Leicester?"

"MacAran," she said with a surge of dull anger, and suddenly, with a deep gnawing pain, she remembered... how happy they had been during the Winds.. .

Ewen looked down at her senseless form with deep regret. "Get hold of Rafael MacAran," he said, "have him with her when she comes out of it. Maybe he can talk some sense into her."

"How can she be so selfish?" the nurse said in horror.

"She was brought up on a space satellite," Ewen said, "and in the Alpha colony. She joined the space service at fifteen and all her life she's been brainwashed into thinking childbearing was something she shouldn't be interested in. She'll learn. It's only a matter of time."

But secretly he wondered how many women of the crew felt the same--sterility could be psychologically determined too--and how long it would take to overcome this conditioned fear and aversion.

Could it even be done, in time to bring them up to a viable number, on this harsh, brutal and inhospitable world?