Frederik Pohl - Jem

“Wait a minute!” Dalehouse interrupted. “Those three ships — they don’t have any return stage! That’s why they’re so short!”

Kappelyushnikov nodded. “And that is second conjecture,” he added heavily. “Only is not really conjecture. Library of twenty thousand books is not light reading for weekend. Spacecraft that come apart to make forts are not for round trip. Vessels without return-capsule capability are not accident. Total of sum is clear. For many of us, is not intended we ever go back to dear old planet Earth.”

Getting into the Jemman sky again the next day was a victory for Dalehouse, and he did not know how many more of those victories he would have. The day had begun unpromisingly. As soon as the “morning” lights were on he had found a mini-memo on the bench inside his tent door to let him know that, as from 0800 hours that standard day, he was to consider himself under military discipline with the assimilated rank of captain. On the way to breakfast he had passed an orderly carrying two covered trays into Margie’s tent. An orderly! Not even the late Harriet Santori had gone that far. And on the way back past the tent, the Vietnamese colonel had been coming out.

Who Marge Menninger kept in her bed was no concern of his, and all this other military Mickey Mouse was irrelevant to his purpose on Jem. All the same, Dalehouse was not enjoying his flight as much as usual that day.

For one thing, Charlie and his flock were nowhere around — partly because Major Santangelo had insisted they overfly some of the other parts of Jem to bring back intelligence. Mostly because Dalehouse himself was reluctant to have them there, with so many ha’aye’i waiting in the clouds to prey on them. At least he had insisted they stay a full two kilometers away from the Greasy camp; maybe that was enough for safety. Meanwhile, Dalehouse had his lightweight carbine with him, and he was hoping to take out at least a couple of the ha’aye’i before Charlie drifted back. There was already one balloonist in the camp as a sort of combination convalescent and pet, waiting for his ha’aye’i- ripped gasbag to mend enough for flight. Dalehouse didn’t want Charlie to join him.

Trying to look appetizing, he drifted under the base of a low cumulus humilis. It was exactly the sort of place the air-sharks chose for hiding. But if there was one in the cloud it wasn’t hungry just then.

He vented gas and dropped away from the cloud as the updraft began to suck him toward it; if there were ha’aye’i, he wanted to meet them in clear air, not where they could be upon him before he could shoot. A return flow carried him back toward the camp, and he looked down from half a kilometer on a busy scene. About twenty people were still unloading the new ships. Others were clearing brush and forest to widen the perimeter around the camp, and up past the camp toward the hills, in a natural meadow of thorn-bearing ground vines, a tiny tractor was plowing furrows. That was new! The tractor must have come out of one of the ships, and the furrows looked exactly as though someone was planning to farm.

That was reasonable enough, and even good news — certainly they could use fresh vegetables, and if the Greasies could grow them so could the Fats. But something about it troubled Dalehouse. He couldn’t put his finger on it; something about using soldiers to farm? Forced labor on land?

He dismissed the thought; he was getting too low.

He vented some ballast, and the water sluiced down on the newly plowed land like a toy-scale rain shower. The thing that was tickling his memory was beginning to be annoying. For some reason, it reminded him of his undergraduate anthropology professor, a gentle and undemanding man a lot like Alex Woodring -

Like Alex Woodring, who was dead. Along with Gasha and the Bulgarian corporal he had never really come to know.

He was having none but depressing thoughts. His reserves of hydrogen and ballast were getting a little low, and evidently the ha’aye’i had learned to distinguish between a balloonist and a human being swinging from a netted cluster of bags. They were not to be tricked this day. Reluctantly he swung back over the beach, vented gas, and dropped to the pebbly sand.

By the time he had picked up and stowed the deflated balloons Margie Menninger was approaching, along with the woman sergeant who was her orderly. “Nice flying, Danny,” she said. “Looks like fun. Will you take me up with you sometime?”

He stood regarding her for a moment. She really looked very pretty, even in the maroon Kung-light that darkened her lips and hid the gold of her hair. Her fatigues were new and sharply pressed, and her short hairdo flopped becomingly as she moved. “Any time you say, Marge. Or is it ‘colonel’?”

She laughed. “All you brand-new officers are the same, very rank conscious. We’re off duty right now, Danny, so it’s Marge. You’ll learn.”

“I’m not sure I want to learn how to be a soldier.”

“Oh, you’ll catch on,” she promised. “Tinka, take the point. Let’s go for a walk, shall we?”

The sergeant moved out ahead of them, trotting to the barbed-wire enclosure. The troops in the pit at the corner lifted a section of the wire aside so the three of them could pass through; the sergeant in charge gave Margie a soft salute, and she nodded pleasantly back.

“If a person went swimming in this water,” she said, “would she find herself being eaten up by something?”

“Not so far. We do it all the time.”

“Looks pretty tempting. Care to join me?”

Dalehouse shook his head, not in negation but in wonder. “Margie, you’re something. I thought colonels had to keep busy, especially when they think their troops need armed guards and barbed-wire fences day and night.”

“Dear Danny,” she said good-naturedly, “I haven’t been a colonel very long, but I taught the theory of it to a couple thousand plebes at the Point. I think I have a pretty good grasp of the basic principles. A colonel doesn’t have to do much; she just has to see that everybody else gets everything done. I already put in four hours of pretty solid work this morning.”

“Yes, I saw Colonel Tree coming out of your tent.”

She looked at him thoughtfully. She didn’t comment but went on, “As to your other point, the perimeter watch is SOP from now on, but there are patrols in the woods and aerial reconnaissance every hour, and besides, Tinka’s a qualified expert with all hand weapons. I think you’ll be all right.”

“I wasn’t worried about my personal safety.”

“No, you weren’t. You were worried about the troops under my command, and on their behalf I thank you for your concern.” She grinned and patted his arm. “Hold on a minute.” She fished a cigarette case out of her pocket, ducked behind him to get out of the wind, and expertly lit up. She inhaled deeply and held it, passing him the joint. When she exhaled, she called to the sergeant, “Tinka!”

“Yes’m.”

“Next batch of dope you clean for us, save the seeds. Let’s see if we can grow the little buggers here.”

“Yes’m.”

Danny took a long hit, beginning to relax. Being with Margie Menninger was never dull, at least. As he slowly exhaled he looked her over in some admiration. She had adjusted at once to the heat, the disconcertingly low gravity, the thick air that had troubled them all for weeks. She was some kind of woman.

By the time they had finished passing the joint back and forth they were out of sight of the perimeter guard where the beach widened under a high, bare bluff. Margie stopped, looking around. “Seems as good as any,” she commented. “Tinka, take your position.”

“Yes’m.” The sergeant scrambled agilely up the side of the bluff to the top, and Margie shucked her fatigues. She wore nothing underneath. “If you’re coming, come. If not, stay and help Tinka keep watch.” And she splashed into the water.