Agnes and Curt had drawn into the circle, listening. Agnes nodded and said, “For once you aren’t joking, Jimmy. The first months we were here I cried myself to sleep every night, wondering if they would ever find us. Now I know they never will and I don’t care! I wouldn’t go back if I could; the only thing I miss is lipstick.”
Her husband’s laugh boomed out. “There you have the truth, Rod. The fleshpots of Egypt . . . put a cosmetics counter across this creek and every woman here will walk on water.”
“That’s not fair, Curt! Anyhow, you promised to make lipstick.”
“Give me time.”
Bob Baxter came up and sat down by Rod. “Missed you at the meeting this morning, Rod.”
“Tied up. I’ll make it next week.”
“Good.” Bob, being of a sect which did not require ordination, had made himself chaplain as well as medical officer simply by starting to hold meetings. His undogmatic ways were such that Christian, Jew, Monist, or Moslem felt at ease; his meetings were well attended.
“Bob, would you go back?”
“Go where, Caroline?”
“Back to Terra.”
“Yes”
Jimmy looked horrified. “Boil me for breakfast! Why?”
“Oh, I’d want to come back! But I need to graduate from medical school.” He smiled shyly. “I may be the best surgeon in the neighborhood, but that isn’t saying much.”
“Well. . .” admitted Jimmy, “I see your point. But you already suit us. Eh, Jackie?”
“Yes, Jimmy.”
“It’s my only regret,” Bob went on. “I’ve lost ones I
should have saved. But it’s a hypothetical question. ‘Here we rest.'”
The question spread. Jimmy’s attitude was overwhelmingly popular, even though Bob’s motives were respected. Rod said goodnight; he heard them still batting it around after he had gone to bed; it caused him to discuss it with himself.
He had decided long ago that they would never be in touch with Earth; he had not thought of it for how long? over a year. At first it had been mental hygiene, protection of his morale. Later it was logic: a delay in recall of a week might be a power failure, a few weeks could be a technical difficulty but months on months was cosmic disaster; each day added a cipher to the infinitesimal probability that they would ever be in touch again.
He was now able to ask himself: was this what he wanted?
Jackie was right; this was home. Then he admitted that he liked being big frog in a small puddle, he loved his job. He was not meant to be a scientist, nor a scholar, he had never wanted to be a businessman but what he was doing suited him . . . and he seemed to do it well enough to get by.
“‘Here we rest!'”
He went to sleep in a warm glow.
Cliff wanted help with the experimental crops. Rod did not take it too seriously; Cliff always wanted something; given his head he would have everybody working dawn to dark on his farm. But it was well to find out what he wanted Rod did not underrate the importance of domesticating plants; that was basic for all colonies and triply so for them. It was simply that he did not know much about it.
Cliff stuck his head into the mayor’s hut. “Ready?”
“Sure.” Rod got his spear. It was no longer improvised but bore a point patiently sharpened from steel salvaged from Braun’s Thunderbolt. Rod had tried wrought iron but could not get it to hold an edge. “Let’s pick up a couple of boys and get a few stobor.”
“Okay”
Rod looked around. Jimmy was at his potter’s wheel, kicking the treadle and shaping clay with his thumb. Jim! Quit that and grab your pike. We’re going to have some fun.”
Throxton wiped at sweat. “You’ve talked me into it.” They added Kenny and Mick, then Cliff led them upstream. “I want you to look at the animals.”
“All right,” agreed Rod. “Cliff, I had been meaning to speak to you. If you are going to raise those brutes inside the wall, you’ll have to be careful about their droppings. Carol has been muttering.”