Frederik Pohl - Jem

It was Marge Menninger’s conviction, recent but certain, that this job was what she had been born for. The important thing was to do it the right way, which was her own way, which had to be laid out from day one. No false starts. A happy camp — plenty of work to keep them busy and plenty of time to enjoy themselves. And a productive camp. Jem belonged to her and hers, and now they had it.

While she was waiting for the cha-cha to end she considered the next day. Ship One would be empty, and a team could be started on separating the two halves and moving them into position in the perimeter.

Dalehouse or Kappelyushnikov — which? the Russian, she decided — Kappelyushnikov could be briefed on Tinka’s mission, or at least enough of it so that he could escort her partway to the Greasy camp. A work team could be organized to start putting up poles for the farm plot. She would meet and learn to know at least six of the advance party; in two weeks, she should know everything she had to know about everyone in the camp. Orders would be cut naming Guy Tree as her G-l and Santangelo as G-2. The others she would wait on; there might be people she hadn’t met yet who should have the jobs. And, if things went well, during the three hours she allowed herself for a midday break, she would go for a walk in the woods. If you could call them woods. They needed to be dealt with too: Knock down some of those skungy ferms, scoop out some farm ponds to drain that soggy swamp. It would work — all they needed was a couple of bulldozers. Which reminded her that she needed at least to make a first approximation of a requisition list for the next shipment from Earth. That couldn’t wait. With all the fuss the civilians were kicking up, Marge Menninger wasn’t sure how many more shipments there would be. She already knew a number of goodies she wanted, but the old-timers would probably think of more. So she would need to talk to some of the old-timers. Morrissey, Krivitin, Kappelyushnikov — she would fill in the others later.

The smell of pot from beyond the stand pleased her. She thought of lighting up before getting up to make her speech — it was another way of showing her personal style. But it had been less than half an hour since the last one, and Marge knew her tolerances exactly; it might make her fuzzy.

The cha-cha ended, and the girl at the tape machine, looking toward Margie, switched it off. Marge nodded and climbed the stand.

The laughter and buzz dwindled as the hundred-odd people turned to face her. She smiled out at them for a moment, waiting for silence. They looked exactly like the plebes at West Point had looked, exactly like the audience in the Senate hearing room, like every audience she had ever faced. Marge was in touch with her audiences; she could always make them like her, and for that reason she liked them.

“Welcome to the first weekly Food Bloc Expedition Saturday Night Dance. I’m Colonel Marjorie Menninger, USA, and I’m your camp commander. Some of us already know each other pretty well by now. The rest of us are going to get to know each other very well very soon, because when you come right down to it we don’t have much choice, do we? I’m not worried about that, and I hope you’re not. We are a pretty select bunch.” She allowed her gaze to drift past the audience to the edge of the lighted area, where two of her grunts were holding another while he vomited, and added, “Although you might not know that at first.” A small laugh, but genuine. “So let’s start getting to know each other. Guy? Saint? Where are you?” She introduced Tree and Santangelo as they stood forth. “Now Vince Cudahy — are you there? Vince is a mathematician, but he’s also our chaplain. He used to teach at Fordham, but he’s agreed to be nondenominational for the purposes of this mission. So if any of you want to get married, Vince is authorized to do it.” Small chuckle. “He’s a little old-fashioned, so he’d prefer it if you’re of different sexes.” Somewhat larger laugh, but a little questioning note in it. “And in case you do,” she went on, “or even if you don’t, you ought to meet Chiche Arkashvili. Cheech? There she is, our medical officer. Try not to get sick over the next twenty-four hours, because she’s still setting up. But then she’ll be ready for business, and back home in Ordzhonikidze her specialty was obstetrics.” No laugh at all this time. She hadn’t expected one. She gave them a moment to draw the logical conclusion and then pressed it home. “As you can see, we’re planning a permanent base, and I’m planning to make this the best duty any of you have ever had so that a lot of you will want to re-up and stay here. And if you do — and if any of you take seriously what I’ve just been talking about and decide to settle down and have a family on Jem, I’m offering a special prize. A thousand petrobucks for the first baby born in our camp — provided you name it Marjorie, after me.” She waited a beat and added, “Two thousand if it’s a boy.” She got the laugh she wanted and closed it out. “Now on with the dance.” And as the music started she jumped off the platform, grabbed the first man in reach, and started them all going.

For the next half-hour Marge Menninger played hostess, at which she was very, very good. She danced with the men who didn’t much dance, kept the music going, made sure the drinks kept coming. What she wanted was for everybody to have a good time. The next day was time enough for them to start thinking about permanent colonies and how much choice they would be likely to have about extending their stay. When chance permitted she got a word in with the people who had known what she was going to say, asking how they thought it had gone. It had seemed to go well. It made her feel good, and she found she was really enjoying the party. She drank with the drinkers, smoked with the dopers, and danced with everyone. It was safe enough now. When the time came to shut the dance down Tinka would let her know, and meanwhile Tinka would keep an eye on her colonel.

Coming back from the brand-new latrine, Marge paused to enjoy the sight of her people having fun. It was going to be all right! They really were a good bunch, hand-selected, fit, well trained. Whatever she had said to anyone else, in a secret, inside part of her heart Marge had felt a small but unsettling fear that her first really independent command might take qualities she hadn’t known she would need. So far, not. So far, everything was going precisely as she had planned, according to the priorities she had laid out in her own mind. Priority 1, safeguard the integrity of the unit. And it was safeguarded; she could see the perimeter guards in regular patrol, a little disgruntled at missing the dance but carrying out their orders meticulously. Priority 2, accomplish the mission assigned. And that was well on the way. Priority 3, subject to accomplishing 1 and 2, make it a busy and happy camp. And that looked good, too.

She walked around the outskirts of the dance, nodding and smiling, not quite ready to get back on the floor. Tinka appeared beside her, one hand on her government-issue pouch, looking questioningly at her. Marge shook her head. She didn’t need another joint just then. She was feeling happy and relaxed, but just the littlest bit light-headed, Part of it was the smarmy heat and the peculiar instability that came from weighing only about three-quarters what she had been used to for ten years. But she was feeling a little edgy, too, and checking dates in her mind, she thought she knew why. When she came near the medical officer she said in her ear, “Got your freezers going for the sperm and ovum bank yet, doc? Because I think I’m getting ready to make a donation.”

“Noon tomorrow we’ll be ready,” Chiche Arkashvili promised. “But the way the boys and girls have been disappearing into the bushes, I don’t know if we’ll need it.”