Frederik Pohl - O Pioneer!

It took the fire company hardly a minute to get fully deployed, and then it was over. Chief Tschopp bawled, “That’s it! Everybody secure!”

But it wasn’t really the end of the exercise, because then everybody began laying out hoses to drain, winding them back onto their reels at one end as the trapped water flowed out of the other, and they were moving faster than ever. It was only when everything was back in its place that the chief, standing precariously atop one of the tankers, announced: “Fair. Fourteen minutes twenty-two seconds to arrival on scene, fifty-eight seconds to deployment, eight minutes eleven seconds to retrieval. We’ve done better. Officers? Any comments?”

Lieutenant Silva Cristl raised her hand. “I have one. Giyt, you have to control your hose better. You got me pretty damn wet.”

She was, at that. As a lieutenant of fire police Cristl was exempt from the more physical work of a wetdown, but she was soaked anyway. “Sorry,” Giyt offered, resolutely not grinning at her.

The chief gave him a suspicious look. “So watch it next time,” he ordered. “And get your damn slicker on. Now let’s parade.”

So Giyt, soaked and uncomfortable under the hastily donned slicker, learned that they weren’t quite through for the day, after all. He clung to the pumper’s rail as they retraced their path toward the town, now more sedately.

Back in the town they didn’t head for the firehouse; they made a ceremonial tour, stopping to wheep their sirens in brief greeting before the firehouses of each of the other species. Giyt was interested to see that each of the other races evidently expected them. All the doors were open. All the fire-fighting equipment of the other companies was on display—green metal tractors for the Kalkaboos, a fleet of smaller, faster trucks for the Delts, an extension ladder for the Centaurians. From his position high on the truck he could see nothing of the equipment of the Petty-Primes, though the doors of their dollhouse-sized firehouse were open. Only the Slugs were missing. Their own firehouse, if they needed one at all in their dank surroundings, was no doubt down in their community. But in each of the others at least three or four members of their own fire companies were standing by, listening to the few words—squeals, gargles, grunts—that came out of the PA system as Chief Tschopp spoke to them through the translator microphone, inviting them all to the upcoming fair.

Then the tankers detached to refill at the lakeshore and the pumpers rolled back to their own firehouse; the chief reminded everybody that they would soon be receiving assignments for their duties at the upcoming fair, and it was over.

In the cart they shared to take them home, Lupe was all smiles. “So how did you like the wetdown, Evesham?” she asked, confident of the answer.

“Actually,” he admitted, “I did. One thing, though. I noticed we seemed to have a lot more equipment than the other guys. Do we really need all that firepower?”

“Oh, hell, Evesham, you just wait and see. When we start getting brush fires in the dry season we’ll be pumping the tankers dry every time we go out.”

“Oh,” he said, thinking. Dry season. He would have to do a little digging about Tupelo’s seasons, too. He turned and peered up at the mountain, where a large cloud was hanging over the peak. He commented, “Looks like we’re going to get rain today, though.”

Lupe looked at him peculiarly. “Not from that, Evesham,” she said. “That cloud’s just orographic uplift. I guess the trade winds are starting early this time.”

So there was another key term for Giyt to try to learn something about. But every time he thought he’d have a few moments to put in on a literature search, something stopped him. He had another report to read. Or he had to show up at the gateway to welcome the next arriving batch of colonists. Or Rina disappeared into the sanitary room for longer than usual, and he couldn’t think of anything but the chance of miscarriage, hemorrhage, some damn pregnancy-related thing . . . until she at last came tranquilly out, smiling fondly at her husband’s unnecessary concern.

After dinner that night Rina said, “Hon, let’s let the dishes wait. I’ve got a better idea.”

It was a clear invitation; but when they had finished doing what the invitation had intended, Rina propped herself up on one elbow to look at him quizzically. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

“That’s what I was going to ask you. Shammy dear.”

’’Didn’t you—”

“Sure I did, hon, but, I don’t know, you seemed a little—well, I guess the word is restrained.”

He made a joke of it. “Maybe it’s time to get the whips and chains out.”

“I could if you wanted me to,” she said, startling him, but smiling to show she didn’t mean it. “But I don’t think that’s the problem here, sport. I think you’ve got the baby on your mind.”

“Well—”

“Sure you do, Shammy. Listen. You really don’t have to treat me as though I were made out of spun glass. It’ll be six or seven months, anyway, before we have to start being careful.”

“I was just thinking,” he began apologetically.

“I know what you were thinking, but you’d be surprised how hard it is to get rid of a baby.” She gave him a considering look, then added, “I don’t know if I ever told you, but I was pregnant once before.”

“You had a baby?” He was suddenly wondering if there was some part of Rina left behind on Earth.

“Not quite. What I had was an abortion. I was fourteen. And my father found out about it.” She was silent for a moment, then said, “I did kind of like the idea of having a baby of my own, but I didn’t see how I could manage it. Dad sure wasn’t going to raise a bastard for me in his house, and what else could I do? I didn’t like the idea of being a welfare mother, didn’t have any skills to earn a living. So I stuck it out for a while after the abortion, and then I ran away.”

It seemed to Giyt that his wife was telling him this story for a reason. The way she was looking at him she seemed to want some reaction from him, but what that reaction should be, he could not guess. Awkwardly he took her free hand and placed it against his cheek.

Apparently it was the right response. She gave him a sudden grin. “You always thought I was pretty dim to give money to every panhandler who came by, didn’t you, Shammy?”

“Dim? No, nothing like that!” he protested. “You’re just a generous person.”

“Not just generous. I owe the street people. They took me in, fed me, showed me places where I could sleep, away from the cops and the weather. If they had anything to eat, so did I. They didn’t expect anything back, either. They even put up with the way I was, and I was a lot to put up with—a dumb, weepy teenager. I was a mess, Shammy, and they treated me as though I were a human being. But I didn’t want to go on sponging off them.”

She leaned over and kissed him. “You know something I’ve always appreciated about you, Shammy? You never once asked me why I became a whore.”

“None of my business,” he said gruffly, surprised to find himself touched.

“No,” she agreed, “it wasn’t, but I guess maybe it is now . . . Daddy. Anyway, that’s how. Fifteen years old, how else could I make a living? And here I am.” She hesitated, “But, Shammy, there’s one thing I would like you to know. I screwed a lot of guys at one time or another. Mostly it was business, but sometimes not. But I never loved anyone else before you.”