James White - The Escape Orbit

Already drafted were a series of follow-up orders in increasingly firm language, which would not go out until the present tension between the two factions had eased considerably and the preparations for the Escape were far advanced, one of which stated, “Owing to the necessity of gathering up-to-date information on the disposition of friendly and enemy forces prior to the Escape, all officers are asked to interrogate new arrivals regarding these matters or, if they feel unable to execute this duty with the required efficiency, to escort them to the nearest Post without delay.”

To Ruth Fielding he said, “You’ve been appointed to the Staff because I need a good psychologist who can evaluate the overall situation here and help me guide it in the direction I think it must go, and who is also capable of seeing it from the woman’s angle. We don’t really need the help of every officer on the planet, but the ones we do want—the chemists, metallurgists and engineers that Sutton is screaming for—all seem to have married or gone civ… sorry, I mean they’ve left the Committee. To get these men, it seems to be, we must first interest their wives in the project.”

“This might be accomplished,” he went on, “by you mentioning at some length the absence of civilized amenities here, such as decent feminine clothing, makeup and whatever else it is that you and they miss. If you can make them feel discontented they will bring additional pressure to bear on their husbands and friends to support the Escape.”

“With this in mind, I am going to make a tour,” Warren continued, standing up and indicating a sequence of farms, villages and Posts which included both Hutton’s Mountain and Andersonstown. “One of the most important calls will be Andersonstown. It was there that some of our best Committeemen were lured, trapped or otherwise inveigled into joining the other side, and it is only fitting that we choose the same place to start winning them back again.”

Warren resumed his chair, smiled and went on, “But this whole area is literally crawling with husband-hungry women, which is another and more selfish reason for me wanting to take you along. The way I see it, arriving in company with a female officer who is well above average in looks will, as well as showing them that the Committee is no longer composed entirely of misogynists, be the only way of keeping these ravening females at bay and protecting me from a fate which is, the way Sloan tells it, worse than death… What did you say, Ruth?”

“Sorry, sir,” said Fielding. “I was muttering to myself about my lack of experience chaperoning Sector Marshals. And for the other flattering things you said, thank you, sir.”

“Not flattery, Major. Fact.”

“Well, well,” Fielding returned, grinning. “It seems that there are two good psychologists here…”

Hastily, Warren ended the interview before it developed into a mutual admiration society by telling her that he wanted to leave that afternoon and that they both had arrangements to make.

But the preparation for the tour did not go smoothly, and when the hour came when Warren had expected to set off he had what amounted to a mutiny on his hands. It began when Sloan insisted that the Marshal was too valuable a man to risk traveling without a proper escort, and in the same breath refused to order his men to a duty which would take them into hag-ridden Andersonstown—nor would he go there himself. It took every scrap of Warren’s authority, persuasiveness and invective to finally effect a compromise, which was that a single Committeeman from the post should act as guide to Warren and an escort made up of six members of Warren’s original crew who were fairly proficient with their cross-bows would accompany him.

The delay meant that they would not be able to stop the night at the farm thirty miles to the south as planned, but the idea of roughing it for the first night out did not seem to bother anyone. They marched in single file with packs on their backs, their cross-bows carried at the regulation Committee angle and with their hair plastered with the strong-smelling grease which was supposed to discourage insects and battlers—if the battlers did not happen to be feeling hungry or mean, and it was only on rare occasions when battlers were not feeling both—and eager to put into practice all the things they had learned as drill at the Post. It was only their guide, an officer named Briggs, who seemed worried. Tactfully but at frequent intervals he suggested that they might not be as proficient as they thought.

But the two-hour trek through the forest, which was often so dense and thorny that Warren longed for Civilian trousers rather than his trim, Committee kilt, did not noticeably damp their enthusiasm and when they reached the road which would eventually lead them to the farm they began to make good time.

It was Warren’s experience of what, until then, had been only a black line on the wall map. The road was little more than an unpaved trail, grass-grown and overhung by trees except where it crossed a river or ravine by way of a strong and surprisingly well-designed bridge. Warren had to remind himself that the road had not been built solely for pedestrian traffic, but was meant to take the heavy, metal sections of the dummy, and that the whole escape could fail if just one of those sections was to end up in a ravine.

Three hours before sunset Briggs called a halt, saying that due to their lack of experience it would be better to allow plenty of daylight in which to catch their supper. Then later, when the fires were going well and the men were returning in triumph with the small rabbit-like creatures which abounded in the forest, Briggs had some gently sarcastic things to say about the large number of arrows which were apparently necessary to kill these ferocious, eight-inch long herbivores. And when there was nothing left of the supper but the appetizing smell, he made further attempts to spoil the general air of well-being by talking about some of the horrible accidents which could occur through hammocks not being properly hung. Warren felt a little sorry for him because nothing he said or did could make Fielding and the men stop behaving as if they were all on a glorious picnic.

Some of the things which Briggs had warned them about came back to Warren, however, as he climbed the regulation thirty feet into one of the trees chosen for them to sleep in. Thirty feet was the minimum safe altitude, the height above ground level to which a fully grown battler reared onto its hind legs and with trunks at full extension could not reach. The trouble was, Warren thought as he attached his hammock to the one Briggs had pointed out to him, that branches at this height tended to be thin, and under his considerable mass this one sagged alarmingly. It required a distinct effort of will for him to climb into the hammock even when its fail-safe device—a length of thick rope looped around his waist and tied securely to the branch above—was in position. As he pulled across the flap which was designed to keep out the rain or dew, he was painfully aware of the distance between the ground and himself, and of the fact that he was not going to sleep this night…

He awoke suddenly to the sounds of shouting, cursing and cries of pain. The sky between the leaves above him was light blue and the leaves themselves reflected pink highlights from the rising sun, and in the next tree Briggs was clambering among the branches methodically whacking the undersides of the hammocks with a stick. Warren did not think that the man would subject a Sector Marshal to such treatment, but rather than put it to the test he pulled himself astride his branch and began untying the hammock preparatory to stowing it in his pack. Half an hour later they were on their way, munching on the hard, Post-baked biscuits as they marched.