Frederik Pohl - Jem

Sitting on the edge of Kappelyushnikov’s personal cot, Dalehouse put the viewer down thoughtfully. The Grand Haven house. It was really only a bungalow, at least fifty years old and only sketchily modernized. But he and Polly had spent their honeymoon in it, in a snowy January with the wind whipping up over the bluff from Lake Michigan all day and all night. Of course she could have the house. Somebody in the camp could probably notarize a quitclaim, at least legally enough to satisfy some up-country surrogate court.

He stretched out on the cot, thinking about his ex-wife and her letter. News from Earth had not seemed either very interesting or very relevant, and Dalehouse had spent a lot more time thinking about the balloonists and the complications of life on Jem than about the brief paragraphs on the camp wall newspaper. But Polly made it sound serious. Riots, looting, blackouts, heatless days! He decided he would have to talk to some of the new people as soon as they quit bustling around and getting settled. That Bulgarian girl, for instance. She could fill him in on what was really happening back home, and, besides, she was a pretty nice person. He lay drowsily trying to decide whether it was better to do that now or to keep on enjoying the private space to think his own thoughts.

The decision was taken out of his hands. “Hello, Dr. Dalehouse,” came Ana Dimitrova’s voice. “Mr. Kappelyushnikov said you’d be here. But I must confess I was not sure he was in earnest.”

Dalehouse opened his eyes and sat up as Gappy and the girl stooped through the entrance to the shed. The pilot’s expression made it clear that, whatever he had told the girl, he had hoped there would be no one there, but he rallied and said, “Ah, Anyushka, you must learn to trust me. Here is old friend to see you, Danny.”

Dalehouse accepted the formal handshake she offered. She had a nice smile, he observed. In fact, if she had not chosen to wear her hair pulled severely back and avoid the use of makeup, she could have been quite attractive.

“I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you, Miss Dimitrova.”

“Heavens, Ana, please. Old cellmates must not be formal with each other.”

“But on other hand,” said the pilot, “must not impose on dear Danny, who is no doubt hungry and must get to mess hall at once or risk missing excellent dog-meat-and-slime meal.”

“Nice try, Gappy,” Dalehouse acknowledged. “No, I’m not hungry. How are things on Earth, Ana? I’ve just been hearing some bad stories.”

Her expression clouded. “If the stories you have heard have been of violence and disaster, then, yes, that is how things are. Just before we left the television news spoke of martial law in the city of Los Angeles, and also in several cities of Europe. And there was some sinking of an Australian naval vessel off the coast of Peru.”

“Dear God.”

“Oh, there is much more than that, Dr. Dalehouse — Dan. But we have brought all the recent newspapers, as well as tapes of television programs — it is really quite an extensive library, I understand. I believe there are more than twenty thousand books in microfiche, at Colonel Menninger’s express orders.”

“Twenty thousand books?” Dalehouse shook his head. “You know, I never thought of her as a reader.”

Ana smiled and sat cross-legged on the floor before him. “Please, let us be comfortable. I too am sometimes astonished at Colonel Menninger.” She hesitated, then said, “She is not, however, always to be relied on. I had expected some time to consult with my government before coming here, on her promise. But it did not happen. None of us were allowed to leave the camp until we were flown to the launching point. Perhaps it was because she did not want to risk exposing us to the unstable conditions we might have found.”

“As bad as that?”

“Worse,” growled Kappelyushnikov. “You see, Danny? We should be grateful to be here on safe tropical-paradise planet like Jem, where only once in awhile isolated party gets wiped out by giant cockroaches.”

“That’s another thing,” said Danny. “Marge Menninger doesn’t seem particularly worried, after the flap yesterday.”

“No reason to worry, dear Danny. I and little Vietnamese colonel have scoured every centimeter from ten klicks in all directions, using magnetometer, IR scanners, and good piloting eyes. Is no metal thing bigger than breadbasket anywhere around, I promise, and not more than three, maybe six, creatures larger than crabrat. So sleep safely tonight, Danny. In own bed,” he added pointedly, and did not need to add “soon.”

Nan was quicker than he. “That is good advice, Gappy,” she said, standing up. “I think I will take it for myself.”

“I will escort you,” rumbled Kappelyushnikov. “No, do not disturb self, Danny. I see you are quite tired.”

Ana sighed. “Gospodin Kappelyushnikov,” she scolded, “apart from the fact that I am tired and quite disoriented from all these new experiences, you and I have barely met. I do hope that we will be friends. Please don’t make that difficult by behaving like some Cossack with a peasant maid.”

Gappy looked abashed, then angry. Then he grinned. “Anyushka, you are fine Slavic girl. Yes, we will be friends at once. Later on, perhaps more — but,” he added hastily, “only in proper Soviet style, no premature touching, all right? Now let us all three stroll through pleasant Jemman murk to your tent.”

Ana laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Russian bear! Come, then.” She led the way outside and stood for a moment, glancing around at the quieting camp. The floodlights that marked official “day” were out, but Kung was clear and ruddy in the sky overhead. “I do not know if I can get used to a world where it is never night,” she complained.

“Is severe handicap for certain purposes, yes,” Kappelyushnikov agreed. They climbed the bluff and walked along it toward the female tent area. At the very edge, surrounded by a border of rounded stones in lieu of a lawn, was a tent larger than the others. It already had a flat rock before it stenciled Col. M. Menninger, Commanding.

“Margie’s doing herself well,” Dalehouse commented.

“Is privilege of rank,” said Kappelyushnikov, but he was staring down the beach at the four new ships, one tall and slim, three squat, resting on their landing struts.

“That’s strange, isn’t it?” Dalehouse said. “Those three are quite unlike the others.”

Gappy glanced at him. “You are truly observant, Danny.” But his tone was strange.

“All right, Gappy. What’s the secret?”

“Secret? Simple pilot is not told secrets. But I have eyes, and I can make conjectures.”

“Come on, Gappy. You’re going to tell us your conjecture sooner or later. Why not do it now?”

“Two conjectures,” he corrected. “First, observe shape of three new spacecraft. Imagine sliced in half, forming two little cones each. Then imagine all six cones set on base around perimeter of camp, and the glass removed from those long, narrow ports that are so unnecessary for navigation of space. What have we then?”

“Upside-down cones with unglazed long, narrow ports,” Dalehouse guessed.

“Yes, exactly. Only when installed on defense perimeter we have other name for them. We call them ‘machine-gun emplacements.’ ” He sighed. “I think is triumph of two-faced engineering design, not accident, that this is so.”

“But one can scarcely believe that,” objected Ana. “This is, after all, a peaceable exploration party, not an invading army!”

“Yes, also exactly. Is only coincidence that so many members of peaceable exploration party are also soldiers.”

Both Dalehouse and the girl were silent, studying the landed spaceships. “I would like not to believe you,” said Ana at last. “But perhaps—”