Roots and Forbidden Fruit

Illustration by Janet Aulisio Dannheiser

He had had the stars, and wandering; now he only wanted to sink his roots into his chosen section of enduring earth.

The virgin soil parted beneath Sergei’s plow like a magnetic Stiktite closure unseaming. The weary neo-horses plodded on as he guided them in the precise furrows.

Once, in another life, he had berthed shuttles, piloted starships, commanded men with the same fiercely determined competence.

At the edge of the field he saw Elder Mihael Werner, standing with arms crossed over his chest and wooden-soled boots firmly planted, as ominous and inflexible as the angel with the flaming sword from the ancient writings that had whiled away so many of the long starry hours.

Sergei cursed under his breath. One at a time, he wiped his suddenly sweaty hands on his coarse linsey-woolsey breeches.

The light was dimming into a spectacular sunset, it was time to quit anyway. At the end of the furrow, he headed for the crude barn, greeting the Elder who fell into step beside him.

“The Creator’s peace be on you, too, Goodman Andersen,” Mihael Werner replied heavily, thus setting off an alarm in Sergei’s head. Normally, Werner called him “Friend Andersen” or even “Friend Sergei.” When he was especially pleased he even remembered that they were related by marriage, and Sergei became “Cousin Sergei.” The only worse sign than the formal “Goodman” was if he became again “Captain Andersen.”

It was Captain Andersen business nonetheless.

Sergei sleeved sweat off his forehead with an arm that weighed heavier than neutron-star-core despite the less than T-standard gravity. But the pain, the tiredness, was good. It cut him off, day by day, from that rootless constant wandering that had once been his life. It was the price, part of the price, and he paid it gladly, day by day, over and over. “I’ve spoken to the crew, as you asked me to. Several times. But I’m no longer the captain here, my ship is an orbiting hulk. If the crew had worked together before, developed an esprit de corps, I’d have more influence. But you know how hard you had to recruit, one from a ship here, another from a service there. The voyage was long, but the crew rotated their duties. Many of them slept almost as much as you passengers did. I’ve some authority, and I’ve used it. But there are other officers, even some who were once captains, or close to it, and when crew have a choice, they go with those views they like better. Whose orders, or suggestions, or whatever, they agree with.”

“I understand.” The elder nodded. (It was a title, not a literal description. Physiologically, he was roughly Sergei’s age, some fifty or so T-standard years. Here it was early middle age; on a high-tech world, the bare beginning of prime manhood.) “And I believe you’ve tried your hardest, and not just because you married my cousin, either.” He grinned suddenly, the thick hair surrounding his mouth parting to reveal large white teeth. “There are those among us who forget that Goodman Rossetti was once a planetary chief executive.”

“He was? But he’s not even on the Council.”

“No, he isn’t.” The elder nodded again, his hands busy helping with the unharnessing of the neohorses. Already, with his flowing beard and hair, his homespun clothing and handmade shoes, he looked like an illustration out of a textbook: Neolithic Man. Sergei, in contrast, was permanently depilatoried, all over; he was well aware that his smooth gleaming skull and forever beardless chin were just one more mark of his difference.

Sergei had long since dismissed Goodman Rossetti as a self-important little strutter; he returned to the important problem. “Surely you must have anticipated the crew’s reaction? You knew they could never go back. The relativistic passage of time on the long voyage has cut them—cut us all—off from whatever there was to go back to.”

“Well, lad.” Sergei had put on the yoke holding the four water buckets, the elder had adjusted it fractionally on his shoulders. “We did and we didn’t, so to speak. They signed the agreement, after all.”

“I did, for them,” Sergei reminded. “They only signed standard length-of-voyage contracts.” He was thankful to get out of the small barn, with its closeness and acrid tang of human and animal sweat, overlaid with the riper richness of dung, and the pungent hay. But having real roots made the stenches, made anything, worthwhile.

“Humph.” Elder Werner snorted. “Howsoever, we didn’t anticipate their setting up a machine colony on our very doorsteps. We thought we would gently and lovingly bring them to our beliefs. Instead…”

“As we’ve all seen,” Sergei said dryly, nodding. “You underestimated their ingenuity at adapting the ship’s equipment to use down here. You assumed that without technology they’d be forced to come to you to learn the old ways to survive. You thought—”

“No, you wrong us there, Friend Andersen. We knew that there would be some usage, though we expected a sense of honor would minimize it. We hoped, since we are many and they few, that over a period of time some of them would recognize their errors, that we would grow and they would dwindle; that as their machines failed them, we would be here, ready, to show them the true path.”

Sergei sighed, as he picked his way, head down, over the muddy, trodden track to the small brook. “Your time scale’s off, that’s all, Elder Werner. Think in terms of generations, instead of the months we’ve been here, and you’ll probably be right.” He knelt, unhooked the buckets, began to fill them one by one from the clear running water.

“Yet in all those months—” the elder knelt beside him on the slippery rocks, filled a bucket and hooked it back on the yoke, “—you are the only one of the crew to join us, wholeheartedly. The only one, and you were with us from the beginning.” His eyes met Sergei’s and flicked away. He muttered softly, and Sergei heard, though he was unsure if the elder meant him to or not. “There are always the foolish, foolish youngsters.”

Sergei stood, his shoulders weighed down by the filled buckets. “Ah. Now you want to know why I did it, because you hope it will help you with the others.”

The elder nodded.

Sergei chewed his lip, and plodded back up the path, picking his way gingerly, balancing the weight, trying to think how he could explain to this groundling the why.

With four hands instead of two the evening chores went quickly, but didn’t bring him any closer to the words he needed. Finally he tried to explain, haltingly, what it was like to see many worlds and many times, to a man who had known, up to his single voyage, only one world and one time. How it felt, as your life marched—or staggered—on, realizing how little truly endured. The way always-moving-on and never-a-real-roots-down-home grated and galled, a deeper and deeper unhealing psychic wound. A wound (Sergei kept this part to himself) that, finally, led to the conclusion that no price was too high to pay for its healing.

“But there’s more than the rootlessness.” Sergei flung the traces up onto their hook so fiercely that the hard leather creaked in protest. “Alienation. Contempt. Rejection by the planet dwellers.” To watch a dozen worlds slowly diverging, each in its different but mechanized path, each lived on by humans slowly adapting to the physical realities of their worlds, those adaptations—those changes—plain to the star-traveling visitor. Each world convinced it and it alone was the norm, the gradual alterations of centuries invisible to eyes that would not see. It was the starfliers who stayed the same, and by so doing became more and more different, who had “changed” into aliens, become pariahs, outcasts.

Grooming the neohorses with long, patient strokes, their warm sides smooth under his fingers, their whuffles of contentment a soft counterpoint to his words, he tried to explain the growing hate and fear more and more of the planet-bred were developing for the star-travelers (here, again he didn’t say it, repeated in miniature in this conflict between the colonists and the crew) and its effects on himself and the others. Nor did he explain—he and many others had tried, and the non-technology-oriented never understood—one of the other main causes of that hate and fear, the gift of relativistic time. A starfarer could spend a year of his own physiological time traveling at high speeds from world to world, and return, seemingly unaged, to find fifty years had passed on the slow-spinning worlds, and those he knew aged or dead.

Nor did he mention the basis of truth in the accusations of mutant: the starfarers, exposed to radiation on their long voyages, did produce a high proportion of deviates, higher still if starfarer bred to starfarer. (And, to world-bound eyes, worse than the outright cripples and deformed, were the tiny minority who enjoyed improvements, blessed with extra gifts of mind or body.) Instead he spoke of reactions to hate and fear, and the careless actions or deliberate cruelties of some who knew that decades if not centuries must pass before they returned to a particular world.

“Action and reaction,” Sergei finished, kneeling to splash the last bit of warm water in one of the buckets onto his own face and shoulders. “Beware the stranger. But even your brother becomes a stranger, if you have changed and he has not. Anger breeds anger, distrust distrust. Fear becomes fury, prejudice violence. Until… think, Elder. You yourself regard us as all alike, because, in your heart, you think of us as different, and lump us all together.”

“Nay, now, Friend Sergei!”

“I’m not blaming you, Elder.” A bit of rough, clean toweling hung on a hook, and he used it to dry his face and hands. “It’s only human nature to think so. But—for example, I’m service-bred. I’ve known no other life, though I’ve seen countless societies on countless worlds. But many of the crew would have been planet-bred recruits, from the computer alone knows how many different worlds or ways of life. Even if two recruits came from the very same city on the very same world, generations of world time, with all the changes that implies, could separate them, if they came aboard on different voyages. I know why I came here, I wanted to come, I wanted to be part of what you’re building here. I’ve had time, in those long watches I’ve spent, to do plenty of thinking—”

With only a thin skin of faked normality to separate you from the endless night without; and sometimes, in those weary hours, there’s the observation blister, forbidden except for necessary sightings. But, ah! The distorted wonder of those surrounding immensities. But not even the forbidden glory was enough to compensate for the loneliness, the alienation, the separation from the rest of humanity, the sense that all your accomplishments were melting away like a sand castle before the rushing tide of time….

“—Time, and wandering,” Sergei went on, after a long breath—or ten. “The ship, a ship, and the crews, but never anything lasting, never anything permanent, never a feeling of being a part of, instead of an outsider. I was looking for you, or a people like you, long before you started looking for a captain like me.”

“Ah.” The grizzled head nodded. “I think I see. But the others?”

Sergei shrugged. “Running away, I’d guess, instead of running toward.”

The elder was chewing a very bitter cud. “So you suggest?”

“Let me think on it. In the meantime. I’ll try to talk to them again.”

Elder Werner’s scowl grew even sourer, then he took a deep breath and his face smoothed out. “Ah, then, Friend Sergei, you’re a lucky man, you are. She’s her mother’s touch with the stew pot, that she has. We needn’t worry about your Marya, need we, then? She’s settled down.”

Marya lifted the tanned hide that was the only door to the single turf-roofed subterranean room that would someday be their cellar but was now their living quarters. “Sergei, I was just going to call—Elder Werner!” She sketched a quick curtsy. “I didn’t know—”

“Nay, lass, I but dropped by to wish you good day. Good as it smells, I must be on my way or Ella’ll worry. Besides—” He pinched her cheek genially. “I’d not take away from that second you’re eating for.”

“Elder Werner!” She stamped her foot. “How did you know?” She looked down, smoothing her skirt over her still flat midriff. “It doesn’t show.”

He grinned broader. “Eight my Ella’s had, and the ninth coming. Do you think, child, I don’t know that look on a woman’s face when I see it?” He clapped Sergei’s back. “Congratulations, Cousin Sergei, to the both of you. Oh, aye.” He chuckled. “Settled down all right. Ah!” A loud, long sniff. “If I didn’t know Ella was waiting and keeping mine hot…”

“Just a quick taste, then, Elder Werner,” Marya coaxed, “to be sure your nose wasn’t playing tricks on a hungry man?”

He was ready to leave, had mounted his neohorse and said goodbye to Marya when he remembered one last item. “Friend Sergei, there’s something else I’d have you do if you would.”

“If I can.”

“Get your wife to talk to her sister Innis. They’re much alike, and very close, and mayhap your Marya’s word will help. And young Innis—I like her, you know. She’s a gay little spirit, she brightens the room she’s in. But she’s young, and foolish, and my liking won’t help her a bit if she treads too close to disobedience.”

But when Sergei passed this on to Marya, to his surprise she pursed her lips over the sweater she was knitting and said, “There’s nothing I can do.” “Because you don’t know what’s the matter?”

“Because I do know what’s the matter, and there’s nothing I can do. There’s only one of you, you see.”

“You’re not going to tell me young Innis thinks she’s in love with—she’s just a child!”

She shook her head, her lips tight. “You wouldn’t understand.” And that was all he could get out of her.

The busy days passed. Fall, winter. Sergei could only hope that the Council’s patience was holding.

Oddly, it was Marya who lost her patience. One winter evening, she hurled the spindle she was using across the room. Sergei looked up from the broom he was painstakingly carving from a single thick branch, by shaving layer after layer of thin blades up to a predetermined point. “What’s wrong, darling?”

“Everything, that’s what! This is stupid! It takes forever to spin any yarn on this ridiculous spindle. There must be a better way!”

“Not by the agreement,” he said mildly, solicitous of her pregnancy. “No machines. We can’t use anything we can’t reproduce ourselves. So—”

“I’m not talking about machines,”

she grumbled. “Though when I think of all the lovely machines we heard of back home (not that they allowed us to use them, either!) but machines that could produce yards and yards of lovely cloth in the time it takes me to spin a teensy thread, well, I could just cry, or—or scream. But—” She stared at her husband. “There must have been something in the middle. Something more efficient than this stupid, slow, rotten spindle. Something that could be made by hand, but…” Her voice trailed off, but her lash-shaded hazel eyes remained fixed on her husband.

He wanted to please her, and he couldn’t see the wrong, as long as it was something that could be made, with whatever effort, by hand. He had kept a Link with the giant ship’s computer, which had been left, just in case, on stand-by. So he got a diagram for a spinning wheel.

A foot-pedal powered loom.

A device with weights that wound up and turned the spit.

He was thinking about the small, wind-powered millstone he was making to replace her hand quern while he tied up his horse on his weekly trip to town—and saw Marya’s sister Innis on the punishment stool.

For a second he almost thought it was Marya there. The sisters looked much alike, as though Innis were a younger, prettier, but somehow less formed copy of her sister.

He walked slowly toward her.

Stooling wasn’t meant to be a physical punishment. The “stool” had arms and a high back, comfortable padding, even a canopy to keep off the Sun’s heat or the rain. Instead, stooling was a public portrayal of guilt; it was the isolation, the carefully avoided stares, the knowledge of universal condemnation that formed the penalty.

It was custom, when one of the community was stooled, that each passerby stop and offer to the sitter a heartfelt wish along the lines of, “May your repentance come easily,” or “The Creator welcomes the blackest of sinners, if that sinner regrets and repents.” Innis flicked him a glance as he approached, his wooden-soled boots making a sucking sound as he pulled them out of the mud. Dirty tear streaks runneled down her round, still childish face, but the swollen, reddened gray eyes were sullenly defiant.

“Why, Innis?” he asked softly.

“I won’t marry him,” she replied. “So they call me disobedient.”

“Young Rossetti?”

She nodded, eyes as downcast as her sternest critic could wish. Only Sergei could see the repressed anger in the full childishly pouted lips.

“Someone else?” he asked softly, thinking that if there were, as Marya’s husband, he might have some influence.

She shook her head, biting her lip.

“Then why not Rossetti? He’s a handsome enough youngster, hard working, excellent prospects.”

“They chose him, not me. I don’t even like him.” Her mouth made a spitting gesture. “Even if I did, I don’t want to get married, not yet anyway. And never to him; he’ll beat me.”

“What? How—”

“His father beats his mother.” She spoke with the simple shrewdness otherwise unintelligent people sometimes display. “I’ve heard her scream. Pietro’s very like his father.”

“They can’t make you marry against your will, wait and see. There’ll be someone you want to marry—or—” She was looking at him just as Marya had, when she refused to discuss Innis. It was a look that reminded him that these people had been stubbornly living their way for generations, that they had developed subtleties that he, the outsider, could never understand. In a flash of insight, he realized that their world had been as eager to get rid of them, as they had been to leave it. None of which solved Innis’s problem.

Elder Werner dismissed all his arguments with: “It’s settled. Both fathers agree. She could do far worse, you know.”

“But she’s so young. Wouldn’t it be better to wait?”

“You think all our girls marry as late as your Marya? No, no. Someone would have snapped her up long since, if her mother hadn’t been ill and her presence needed. But Goodwife Waters has rejoined the Creator, and Goodman Waters’s year of mourning is over and he is eager to remarry. As soon as young Innis is safely settled; it’s not good to have two females trying to run the same household, you understand. And that’s final.” He stood on his porch, the bag of seed he had been closing left untended for the moment so he could give all his attention to Sergei, his gaze kept carefully away from the green where Innis sat in the stool. (All the council had farms within easy walk or ride of town, and homes by the small square, so that they were available for town business.)

“But—”

“No. No more, Goodman Andersen.” His pipe pointed suddenly at Sergei, an accusing finger, Werner himself suddenly as straight as Gabriel about to blow his trumpet. “I thought you would understand, but I see you don’t. I blamed you, and I was wrong, so I’ll speak plainly, for your sake and the colony’s.”

“Was I wrong to speak out for Innis? She’s Marya’s sister, after all.”

“Innis? She’s but a girl. Bridal nerves is all that ails her, a young girl’s fancies. She’ll soon enough see that older and wiser heads know best. No. ’Tis you who are walking a dangerous road. Goodman Andersen—Friend Sergei—you must cease this making of new tools!”

Sergei’s mouth dropped open and hung foolishly.

“The wheel.” Werner ticked them off on his fingers. “The loom. The spit.”

“But—but—but—they’re hand-made. Within the agreement. Half a dozen of the women already have copies of Marya’s wheel.”

“Oh, aye. More than that, I’d say. More than that. While those who don’t are nagging their husbands or fathers to make them one, as soon as may be.”

“I don’t understand.” Automatically he bent down, ran the twine draw through the last two pairs of holes in the top of the bag and knotted off. “They’re handmade, and soon every woman will have one, so where’s the problem?”

Even this late in the day, the town thrummed with activity. Down to the smallest child, all had chores. Werner himself had been loading a wagon with seed for his farm. Now, as if to emphasize what came next, or perhaps to think out exactly how he wanted to say it, he paused to sling two more heavy bags up onto the wagon. Without being asked, Sergei heaved the third and last bag, the one he had knotted closed, from the ground onto the top of the heap.

Werner shook his head, slowly. “Aye.” A sigh. “You don’t understand. I’ll be patient with you, then. You know—with your mind, with your intellect—why we came here, why we fled the soulless Sodom and Gomorrah machine world that bred us. But your heart is blind. We came here—” the pipe came out of his mouth, its stem pointing at him in emphasis, “—to live—Our—Own—Way. To live on the land, and with the land, but never, ever, never off the land.”

“What harm can a spinning wheel do?”

“None if you stopped with the wheel. But you didn’t, did you? If we let it, it won’t stop until we’re back to the world we came from, with the soulless machines both our slaves and our masters, and the children ruined before they can scarce draw breath. No. You must stop! Understand! Stop—or you will be stopped.”

Sergei nodded, slowly. “I understand.”

“Do you? Good. You’re my friend, and my cousin by marriage. But you’ve been breaking our laws. It was ignorance. As long as it doesn’t happen again, we’ll say no more about it. But don’t do it again, Friend Sergei. Because lawbreakers will be punished.”

The baby was born two days later, and they named him Schemuel, after Marya’s father. (Sergei hadn’t the vaguest idea who his father had been.) The birth was hard, and both Marya and Schemuel were weak and ill, after. Sergei spent days that stretched into weeks, going from one patient to the other, staying up nights with the sick woman, the fretful infant, his work and his land neglected. Until one day he realized, horrified, that it was spring planting time, and past. So he called the computer again, and got diagrams for a simple seed drill, that harried and readied the soil and planted, all in one operation.

When his seed was safely planted, he took the drill apart again, and said nothing.

But he didn’t want to upset Marya with what Elder Werner had said, so he simply vowed to himself that the seed drill would be the end of it.

When Marya was well enough, they entered fully in the life of the colony, driving kilometers in the jolting wagon to attend a barn-raising, join a haying crew, or whatever.

Sergei had long since discarded his synthetics for Marya’s home-spuns, and her clever hands had made him several hats, knitted for winter, brimmed straw for summer, to hide the smooth bald head. Nonetheless, every so often when he approached, talk would stop abruptly, and begin again on a different note. He shrugged it off. Despite his marriage, he was still the outsider, the alien.

The rest of the crew remained the proverbial thorn-in-the-side. They had finally drifted into a commune existence, growing just enough to live on, wearing synthetics, using the refrigerators, the tractors, the other machines despite the agreement and his own urgings.

His one minor victory had been the clothing.

Pilot Jessamine Chang had spoken for all the crew when she said, “Captain, we’re not savages, we’re not primitives, and we don’t intend to live like them. We’ve the equipment, and the parts and the knowledge to keep it running indefinitely. Why should we waste our time doing things by hand that can be done faster and easier by machine?”

He felt out of place, in this foamed synthetic room that was so similar to those he had spent all his life in. But that was before, and he understood how the colonists would feel about the unnaturalness of the smooth, softly glowing pastel walls. They were wrong, and he had to repress an urge to bolt for the clean outdoors. “This is their world,” he said bluntly.

She shrugged. “Big enough for all of us, I’d say.”

He laughed at that. “Never in history. Look—” He spread his hands in a placating gesture. “They are the majority, the crew the minority. What harm can it do to respect their customs, whenever you go among them? If you don’t want to do it yourselves, grow enough extra crops to trade for the handmade cloth, and wear it whenever you go off the commune. What you do in private is your own business. Just don’t rub your differences in their faces.”

“We’ll not turn peasant.” The scorn in her voice added: As you did.

“You don’t have to. Just do as the Romans do—when in Rome.”

“Act the hypocrite, you mean.”

“Respect their beliefs, that’s all. Don’t go against their customs.”

“Fine for you to say,” she snapped. “You’re a man. That Marya of yours knew exactly what she was about. Did you ever notice, it’s Goodman and Goodwife, and no term at all for an adult, unmarried woman? Look at their so-called government, one vote for each married couple, or widower—but not widow. What about all the fuss now, because they want to chain that unwilling child to a man she despises. No, Sergei. Thank you, but—no, thank you!”

It didn’t surprise him that the commune had heard about Innis. It had, after all, been the talk of the village for months. His mouth tightened. He, like Jessamine, disapproved of what was happening; though he couldn’t help wondering if he’d have felt so strongly against it if it had been someone else, not a child who was so like Marya. But he couldn’t explain it to Jessamine, when he couldn’t understand himself, so he merely said, “Primitive people tend to be patriarchal, after all.”

“Myth,” she snapped. “Human nature is what it is. Humans need to have someone to look down on, someone to be the universal servant. In a technological world, the machines serve. But in primitive ones it’s any minority, sex or race, skin color or religion, that can be set off and downtrodden. Your colonists are speeding toward a true two-class-by-sex society as fast as their weak-kneed idiot women will let them. They’re the true hypocrites, the women and the men. Like—they made a fuss about your spinning wheel, didn’t they? But not a word about the seed-drill. Except, you wait and see, next year every man’ll have one.”

“The seed-drill? How did you hear—”

“Marya told me.”

“Oh.” He relaxed. “Not to worry then. I wasn’t supposed to make it. But there won’t be any more… oversights. I won’t; and you mustn’t. These people believe. You’re offending their beliefs. Think about it, Jess. What harm can it do to get a few sets of homespuns, and wear them whenever you visit off the commune?”

“You always could argue a navigator into orbiting through the Sun. No, I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm, Sergei; but it still seems hypocritical.”

“Try… good manners toward your hosts.”

She laughed, but a space-crew used to world after world of strange customs, could understand the value of not offending those customs.

As he left he discovered one more reason for her personal alienation. She ran a casual hand down his back, and the constant ache that had been part of him ever since he had heaved a too-heavy burden several days before disappeared abruptly.

He whirled, and she said simply, “Pinched nerve, Captain. I fixed it.”

“You—”

“They wouldn’t have signed me on if they knew. They have the mudsider prejudices.” Her ice-blue eyes were very bleak suddenly. “Like my own world… but you won’t say anything, will you, Captain?”

He shook his head. “But the service…”

“Yes, they would have used my talent. But I wanted to be a pilot. You, of all people, should understand wanting.”

They weren’t fools, the crew, and they had had experience with mud-siders, so they took his advice, bartered for the homespuns, and made an effort to wear them off the commune.

It was too late, anyway.

They came, twenty or more grim village males, at noon a few days after harvest, so that the fields were still rich with shorn stalks, the very air sweet with scent and dust of the harvested grain. Elder Werner spoke first, the Sun striking gleams of the red it had once been off his gray hair. “I’m sorry, Captain Andersen. But—you cannot stay.”

He stood before the turf-roofed hole that was his home, his wife trembling beside him. Behind the men he had known as friends and neighbors, the fields he had made his by his labor spread out, greenly alive, infinitely precious. “I don’t understand.” This world was free of large predators; he had no weapon but an ax and a serviceable knife.

“We’re purifying the land, Captain,” Werner spoke sadly. “The machines and slaves of the machines must go. You are contaminated, you—and yours—must go, too.”

“Go? Me and—the crew!” He couldn’t imagine the disdainful crew surrendering to what they would consider a mob of primitives. The bright Sun touched the crowd with red. “You killed them! Creator, I—”

“Killers you think us!” The elder strode to stand a hands-breath in front of him, glaring from angry eyes. “Though for what they did, we had the right. But there are other ways, easier ways.” He smiled suddenly. “Dependence on machines can be a—vulnerability. They’re all fine, Captain, if a little… disconcerted. But—this has only proved they can’t stay. They must go away, far, far away. And you with them.”

“Why, Cousin Werner?” Marya made her appeal. “What’s happened. Why—”

He glanced back at the silent mob. In the forefront were the Rossettis, father and son. Sergei followed his glance and Rossetti smiled at him, a furious, gloating snarl. “Innis,” said Werner, “ran, and the commune took her in.”

“Innis,” from Marya. “Is she—did you—did they…”

“She’s safe enough with them, and better so. You may thank me for this, that she’ll stay with those she’s chosen, and not be brought back for whatever punishment Goodman Rossetti would demand.”

Sergei put his arm around Marya. “You’re right,” he announced loudly. “Far away is the only solution. But—why exile me and Marya with them? Haven’t I lived with you, worked with you, married one of you? Look—” He held up his hands, roughened by callouses, scarred by broken, healed blisters. “Look,” he repeated, “the hands of honest toil, like yours. My fields there, where you helped me harvest my crops just days ago, as I helped you with yours. My house—” He gestured back. “—no better than yours and worse than some. But it was what I could do, I made it, myself. Go inside, clothing, furniture, everything, all handmade, by me or Marya. Whatever I was once, I’m one of you now. I…”

Smiling gently, Werner reached into Sergei’s pocket and drew out the computer Link. “All right, If that’s what it takes, I’ll destroy the Link, here and now, in front of you all.”

There was a sigh from the crowd, and then silence, broken only by the contented noise of Schemuel inside, five months old, playing with a carved wooden rattle. Abruptly, the rattling stopped with a thud, as the rattle dropped, followed by a loud wail of dismay.

“Do it,” Werner ordered. “Destroy the heretic machine.”

Without another word, almost in rhythm to the wails of his son, Sergei dropped the Link to the hard-trodden ground and stamped its delicate sophistication to a mass of crushed components with his heavy boot.

Werner stuck out his hand. “Welcome, brother.”

In a daze, Sergei shook the preferred hand, and then, responding to the chorus of smiles of the people crowding around (he didn’t even notice the Rossettis’s quiet retreat), Sergei started laughing, softly, triumphantly—helplessly.

From inside, even over the chorus of laughing congratulations, came the contented rattle of the simple toy. “Fetch the babe, someone,” the elder called over the noise. “He deserves to join the celebration.” Marya made a move, but she was in the center of the crush. “Nay, then—” Werner smiled at her. “There’s men that can carry a babe, eh, cousin?”

“Where are you sending the crew?” Remnants of loyalty made Sergei ask. “That isolated Australoid continent we mapped? It’s the farthest, but the shuttle could make it easily enough.”

“Nay.” The elder had to raise his voice to be heard. “They would live with machines—ye sure carved that rattle loud, cousin!—let them live with their machines. They’re going back aboard the star-voyager.”

“But—” Sergei frowned.

“They’ve no cargo as large as she brought here, but the living quarters are still intact. They’ve all that they brought down with them, ’twill be enough. They wanted to live with machines, so let it be.”

“Up in orbit—endlessly circling?”

“Nay, yon ship’s a star-voyager, the engines still work, so let her travel again, as soon as she’s loaded. They’ve agreed already.” He winked. “We’ve put away machines, but there are those among us who can use them. We’ve kept the small shuttle, yet. It could be programmed to smash into the mother ship. They’ll not linger.”

“No.” Sergei shook his head, thinking of how far a man could go, in his fanaticism. But it was the only way. As long as the machine culture was there, available. Like himself and the Link. As long as it was there…. “But worlds like this are rare; they may not be able to find another.”

Werner shrugged. “Then they can go back, to the machine worlds they love.”

“No, we came so far to get here, the time dilation effect—” He shuddered, imagining a ship of eternal voyagers, always searching, never finding, cut off from the worlds they visit not by twenty or fifty years, but by hundreds. Becoming more and more desperate… As his voice trailed off, he realized that the crowd around had thinned, that the happy hum had died away, that frowns had replaced some of the smiles. In the silence, the rattle sounded even louder.

Someone twitched the elder’s sleeve and whispered in his ear. As he listened, his face grew fierce. “Inside,” was all he said, and wondering, they crowded through the crude opening.

There was a half-circle with the cradle at its center, a wide arc, no man closer than a couple of meters. Sergei, Marya, and Werner worked their way through the thin line… and stopped. And stared.

“You must go,” the elder said finally. “Your machines betrayed you, Captain. You ate of the forbidden fruit, now you must pay the penalty.” More prosaically: “We slept the voyage away, well protected. You did not. We can’t take chances with our children’s children. I’m sorry—Sergei.”

In the cradle, Sergei’s son lay, contentedly sucking his thumb, and on the floor, at least half a meter away from the nearest chubby fist, his rattle shook—and shook—and shook.