Charlie felt crestfallen. He knew that he and Hans could not both be right but he had had a small hope that his answer was nearer the correct one. “Uh…which way am I wrong?”
“Left-demi. Look at Hans’ — he’s dead on…as usual.” The Scoutmaster raised his voice. “All right, gang! Bush formation, route march. Flamers out, right and left. Rusty on point, Bill on drag — shake it up!”
“Heel, Nixie.”
The road cut straight through the jungle. The clearing had been flamed back wider than the road so that the jungle did not arch over it. The column kept — to the middle where the ground was packed by vehicles running to and from outlying plantations. The flamers on the flanks, both of them Explorer Scouts, walked close to the walls of green and occasionally used their flame guns to cut back some new encroachment of vine or tree or grass. Each time they did so, they kept moving and a scavenger gang moved out, tossed the debris back into the living forest, and quickly rejoined the column. It was everybody’s business to keep the roads open; the colony depended on roads more than Ancient Rome had depended on theirs.
Presently it began to rain. No one paid attention; rain was as normal as ice in Greenland. Rain was welcome; it washed off ever-present sweat and gave an illusion of coolness. —
Presently Point (Rusty Dunlop) stopped, sighted back at Drag, and shouted, “Right demi fifteen degrees!”
Drag answered, “Check!” Point continued around the slight bend in the road. They had left Borealis heading “south” of course, since no other direction was possible, but that particular south was base thirty-two degrees right demi, to which was now added fifteen degrees clockwise.
It was Point’s duty to set trail, keep lookout ahead, and announce his estimate of every change in direction. It was Drag’s business to have eyes in the back of his head (since even here the jungle was — not without power to strike), keep count of his paces, and keep written record of all course changes and the number of paces between each — dead reckoning navigation marked down in a waterproof notebook strapped to his wrist. He was picked for his reliability and the evenness of his strides.
A dozen other boys were doing the same things, imitating both Point and Drag, and recording everything, paces, times, and course changes, in preparation for Pathfinder merit badges. Each time the troop stopped, each would again establish base direction and record it. Later, after the hike, they would attempt to map where they-had been, using only their notes.
It was just practice, since the road was surveyed and mapped, but practice that could determine later whether they lived, or died miserably in the jungle. Mr. Qu’an had no intention of taking the troop, including tenderfoot town boys not yet twenty Venus years old, into unexplored jungle. But older boys, seasoned explorer Scouts did go into trackless bush; some were already marking out land they would claim and try to conquer. On their ability to proceed by dead reckoning through bush and swamp and return to where they had started depended both their lives and their future livelihoods.
Mr. Qu’an dropped back, fell in beside Charlie. “Counting paces?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where’s your notebook?”
“Uh, it was getting soggy in the rain, so I put it away. I’m keeping track in my head.”
“That’s a fine way to wind up at South Pole. Next time, bring a waterproof one.”
Charlie didn’t answer. He had wanted one, as he had wanted a polarizing sighter and many other things. But the Vaughn family was still scratching for a toehold; luxuries had to wait.
Mr. Qu’an looked at Charlie. “If convenient, that is,” he went on gently. “Right now I don’t want you to count paces anyhow.”
“Sir?”
“You can’t learn everything at once, and today you can’t get lost. I want you to soak up junglecraft. Hans. you two move to the flank. Give Charlie a chance to see what we’re passing through. Lecture him about it. and for goodness’ sake try to say more than two words at a time!”
“Yes, sir.”