Somehow the sight of the lonely, bent figure put him out of the mood to keep his other appointment in the hospital. He walked away toward the woods, passing the garden area where New Hebrideans were tending long rows of green sprouting plants. Alastair, on his knees, was transplanting small green shoots from a flat screened pan; he returned MacAran’s wave with a smile. They were happy at the outcome of this, this life would suit them perfectly. Alastair spoke a word to the boy holding the box of plants, got up and loped toward MacAran.
“The padrõn–Moray–told me you were going to do geological work. What’s the chances of finding materials for glassmaking?”
“Can’t say. Why?”
“Climate like this, we need greenhouses,” Alastair said, “concentrated sunlight. Something to protect young plants against blizzards. I’m doing what I can with plastic sheets, foil reflectors and ultraviolet, but that’s a temporary makeshift. Check natural fertilizers and nitrates, too. The soil here isn’t too rich.”
“I’ll make a note of it,” MacAran promised. “Were you a farmer by trade on Earth?”
“Lord, no. Auto mechanic–transit specialist,” Alastair grimaced. “The Captain was talking about converting me to a machinist. I’m going to be sittin’ up nights praying for whoever it was blew up the damn ship.”
“Well, I’ll try to find your silicates,” MacAran promised, wondering how high, on Moray’s austere priorities, the art of glassmaking would come. And what about musical instruments? Fairly high, he’d imagine. Even savages had music and he couldn’t imagine life without them, nor, he’d guess, could these members of a singing folk.
If the winter’s as bad as it probably will be, music just might keep us all sane, and I’ll bet that Moray–cagey bastard that he is–has that already figured out.
As if in answer to his thought, one of the girls working in the field raised her voice in low, mournful song. Her voice, deep and husky, had a superficial resemblance to Camilla’s and the words of the song rang out, in question and sadness, an old sad melody of the Hebrides:
My Caristiona,
Wilt answer my cry?
No answering tonight?
My grief, ah me…
My Caristiona…
Camilla, why do you not come to me, why do you not answer me? Wilt answer my cry… my grief, ah me …
Deep my heart is grieving, grieving,
And my eyes are streaming, streaming…
My Caristiona… wilt answer my cry?
I know you are unhappy, Camilla, but why, why do you not come to me… ?
Camilla came into the hospital slowly and rebelliously, clutching the examination slip. It was a comforting hang-over from ship routine, but when, instead of the familiar face of Medic Chief Di Asturien (at least he speaks Spanish!) she was confronted with young Ewen Ross, she frowned with irritation.
“Where’s the Chief? You haven’t the authority to do examinations for Ship personnel!”
“The Chief’s operating on that man who was shot in the kneecap during the Ghost Wind; anyway I’m in charge of routine examinations, Camilla. What’s the matter?” His round young face was ingratiating, “won’t I do? I assure you my credentials are wonderful. Anyhow, I thought we were friends–fellow victims from the first of the Winds! Don’t damage my self-esteem!”
Against her wilt she laughed. “Ewen, you rascal, you’re impossible. Yes, I guess this is routine. The Chief announced the contraceptive failure a couple of months ago, and I seem to have been one of the victims. It’s just a case of putting in for an abortion.”
Ewen whistled softly. “Sorry, Camilla,” he said gently, “can’t be done.”
“But I’m pregnant!”
“So congratulations or something,” he said, “maybe you’ll have the first child born here, or something, unless one of the Commune girls gets ahead of you.”
She heard him, frowning, not quite understanding. She said stiffly, “I guess I’ll have to take it up with the Chief after all; you evidently don’t understand the rules of the Space Service.”
His eyes held a deep pity; he understood all too well. “Di Asturien would give you the same answer,” he said gently. “Surely you know that in the Colonies abortions are performed only to save a life, or prevent the birth of a grossly defective child, and I’m not even sure we have facilities for that here. A high birth rate is absolutely imperative for at least the first three generations—you surely know that women volunteers aren’t even accepted for Earth Expeditionary unless they’re childbearing age and sign an agreement to have children?”