Freedom's Landing (10 page)

So there was one source of protein to augment the ration bars. Water, shelter, food. Not bad going for two days on a new world. Mitford was optimistic, even though he rarely allowed himself that option.

He'd had a chance to talk to nearly a hundred or so men and women yesterday on the march and was much encouraged by the fact that quite a few had specialties that would be damned useful. Automatically, his hands went to pockets where he usually kept pencil and pad. Once again he cursed under his breath. A cup, a blanket, a knife, and a hatchet were not much to work with. He'd had less when set loose on a survival course but he was accustomed to privations. This lot weren't. He missed paper and pencil. He was a visual man and committed facts to memory when he could first write them down. Gerry Capstan had been a surveyor in the Colorado Park Service: he was sure they could find
something to write with and he'd already seen slate along the rocky way.
Helluva way to write orders of the day
, Mitford thought,
but what the hell?
The old granary foreman in Lubbock still used chalk and a slate as a notice board for his drivers.

Murphy had been a machinist, knew welding, and he'd assured Mitford that all he needed was a decent hot fire to reshape some of those extra knives into a bevy of useful tools.

A woman near Murphy in the line of march perked up a bit when she heard the two men talking.

“I'm a potter…Sandy Areson. Yeah, I know what you're thinking,” and she grinned at the dubious expression on Mitford's face, “arty-farty stuff you'd call what I used to produce. But I know how to make up pitchers, mugs, plates, and useful things. That is, if this planet has produced clay.”

“We'll keep that in mind,” Mitford said, knowing that something as simple as pitchers and plates could be a morale booster.

Now, in the cool predawn, Mitford began to plan the day's activities. A good hot meal in everyone's belly would make them optimistic, too. So hunting was the first order of the day. A detailed search of the immediate area and the rest of the cave system was next. And torches to light the corridors that had already been explored.

That herbal guy could see what he could find edible in the vegetable line. There might even be berries.

There were two miners and they could go look for ore deposits.

He'd send out patrols, keep everyone busy, and Arnie could do latrines. That made him smile. And anyone who complained about anything would join Arnie in that duty. With so many people, proper hygiene was of prime necessity.

One of the few pluses was that they were all healthy: the ones who weren't had been left on the field.

He set about waking up men he had tagged the day before as those with some hunting experience back on Earth. He'd have them look out for any wood that could be made into
bows, arrows, and spears. And slingshots. Mitford grinned as he pulled on his boots. He'd been a crack shot as a kid: could stun a jackrabbit at forty yards.

And what was the name of that paramedic? Ah, Matt Dargle. Damn, he'd be glad to have writing materials.

Mitford shook Taglione, Murphy, and Zainal awake and started handing out the orders of the day.

*   *   *

IT WAS THE STINK THAT WOKE HER. SHE STARTED
coughing and couldn't stop. She wasn't the only one coughing, either. Everyone around her was. Then a whiff of cool, clean air wafted across her face and she tried to go back to sleep again. It was much too soon to wake up. It was still dark outside.

Outside of
where?
That question did it: she pushed herself to a sitting position to find out “where” she was.

Inside a cave. The fire in the center was down to embers although someone was trying to revive it by putting lumps—smell-producing lumps—on it.

“I think I'd prefer the dark to the smell,” she murmured, realizing that folks were still sleeping around her. In fact, she recognized Patti Sue's frail body next to her. Kris was chagrined. She hadn't even made sure she still had her trek buddy when she'd gone to sleep. Zainal? Zainal. Hmmm. She looked around but she couldn't find his body among those in here with her. She considered going back to sleep and then realized that first she'd better find the latrine.

“Where's the latrine?” she asked the figure feeding the fire.

“From here?” The man paused briefly. “Hmmm. Go left, take the third right-hand opening.”

“Can I see where I'm going?”

“Oh, yes.”

Although torches had been spaced out along the walls, she found the right cave as much by a certain smell as by following the directions. She was amazed at what had been accomplished. Or, how long had she slept? A toothbrush! When she thought of those handy little pouches handed out
by airlines if you went Business Class, she wished she'd had one to hand: toothbrush, comb, and nail file, not to mention toothpaste, breath neutralizer, and facecloth would be very comforting right now. And something to eat. She passed by “her” cave on her return because she smelled something scrumptious—well, by comparison with what she'd lately had to eat.

She followed her nose, passing other side passages and peering into caves, filled with sleeping bodies. She took a wrong turning and ended up in a cul-de-sac which smelled not at all appetizing, but nasty, old-moldy, dead.

Her nose led her to the source, and the largest of the caves. It was a-bustle with activity, men, women, and aliens—Kris was glad to see the resurgence of whimsy in herself—coming and going. Though what they were going to and coming from she wasn't sure until she saw a group of men, each triumphantly brandishing their spoils. They'd been hunting and, although the creatures resembled oversized rats without tails, if they were what was being grilled over the fires, she'd forget the resemblance.

She went over to the nearest griller and paused by the rock on which two cooked fragments had been laid.

“How do I get in line?” she asked the dark-skinned cook.

“I wouldn't stand on no ceremony was I you,” he said with a grin. “Don't mind what they look like: they taste good and that Cat said they wouldn't kill us.”

“He did,” and Kris tried to act casual as she reached for the meat? Food? It wasn't too hot to handle and she brought it to her lips, inconspicuously licking the part nearest her to get a taste. The taste confirmed the notion that her stomach needed this no matter what else happened. She took a good bite, inhaling air to cool the morsel, hot against her teeth. But she chewed it good—she had to; the meat was tough. It chewed good and tasted great and fell into a grateful stomach.

“Only one a customer,” the dark man said, carefully inserting his knife point to check the state of the portions on the spit.

“Understandable. I've got ration bars to fill in the spaces, but this hot…” She paused, not only to take another bite to follow the first one, but also to give what she ate a proper designation.

“We're calling it meat,” he said, grinning.

“Well, whatever it's called, it hits the spot. Thanks…” And she left her voice on an upnote for him to supply his name.

“Bart,” he said. “You're Kris.”

“How'd you know that?”

“'Cos you carried that girl fer two days and you know the Cat.”

“Oh!” Such glory was unexpected. She looked around, then, rather embarrassed. She saw neither Zainal nor Mitford. “Where's the Sarge and the Cat?”

“Out. Hunting, I think, and seeing if there're more caves.” He wrinkled his nose. “This place isn't really big enough for us all. Good idea to spread out anyhow, iffen you asked me. Only nobody did.” He spoke amiably.

“Better if we had running water.”

“Oh, we do, but the way down to it's no picnic.”

“Oh?”

“Underground lake and river. Probably feeding some of the streams we passed.”

Kris licked the thick bone that had been covered with meat.

“Crack it open. Marrow makes good eating, too.”

Kris scrutinized the bone with reluctance to take his advice.

“Marrow's got a lot of good in it, Kris,” Bart said solemnly. “Crunch down quick to break it open and then suck.”

Rather than appear squeamish, she did so and the marrow was not at all unpleasant. She made sure she had cleaned both halves and then looked around her.

“In the fire,” Bart said. “We burn everything we can find.”

“So I'd…smelled,” she said with a grin.

“Yeah, do get kinda rank, don't it.”

Depositing the bones on the fire and hearing them snap as the flame caught, she also got a whiff of the “burned bone” smell. She licked her fingers so she'd remember better the way the meat had tasted. Then she untied her cup from its place on her belt. “Where's drinking water?”

“Over there,” and Bart nodded his head toward the side, where she could recognize the symmetry of the water crates, stored against the cave wall.

She had no sooner taken a drink than a woman, with her dark hair roughly chopped to a short length, tapped her on the arm. “You wouldn't know how to skin and clean a dead animal, would you?”

“Yup,” she said with considerably more willingness than she actually had for the task. But she'd skinned squirrels and rabbits on her practical for the survival qualification and
now
was a much better time to display her abilities.

“I'm Sandy and I got put in charge without knowing doodly squat. I used to be”—and she gave a droll grin—“a potter.”

“I'm Kris…”

“Yeah, I know,” and the woman grinned at her. “You know the Cat and you carried your buddy for two days.”

Did everyone know those two facts about her? Kris wondered as she followed Sandy outside the cave. She hadn't noticed that the hunters had brought their catch outside again. Half a dozen people were busy skinning and gutting, using large stones as worktops. Two men and two women appeared to be dissecting entrails at another and arguing about anatomy.

“Guts are guts and I don't see why we can't use these,” said the woman, holding up a long, stringy, gray rope. “Ought to be as tough as any cat's.”

“That's what Indians used to use to make bowstrings, wasn't it?”

“Think so. They sure didn't have nylon.”

Kris was not squeamish but she didn't want to lose her
breakfast. It had tasted so good going down, but coming up? She'd rather not find out.

Finding herself a space, she caught the beastie that Sandy tossed her. Limp, soft, but firmly packed. The hide was unexpectedly pleasant to touch though the muted gray-brown was an unearthly color. It wasn't a furry hide, rather a suedey covering. Turning it around on her slab to examine it closely, she couldn't see what had killed it until she noticed that one half of the “head” had been mashed. Too small to have been done by a club and certainly not a blow from the broad-edged hatchets they'd been issued. It did have four legs, a chunky rounded body, and not much neck before the blunt end that was its “head.” She gave a sigh and, giving a quick glance around to see how others were tackling the job, she flipped it to its back and, tipping the head up, began the job of dressing it.

It had more meat on it than either rabbit or squirrel, having heavy haunches and well-developed shoulders. Her knife, while large enough to be a shade unwieldy for precision surgery, was sharp. She made a bit of a hash of stripping the hide off the legs, but hell, you didn't lose much below the “knee.” She had just finished when Sandy appeared with another one and thus she spent her morning. There seemed to be endless quantities of that beastie and another, also suede-covered, with membranous wings that felt slimy. No meat on such wings but she was told to save these, too.

“Did you get something to eat?” Sandy asked her at one point.

“Yes, something from one of the squatty things, I think.”

“If we had a pot to stew in, we could make everything go further,” Sandy said with a rueful smile. “Bob the Herb,” and she grinned back at Kris' startled expression, “well, he knew Terran herbs and he found some root sorts of things that oughtn't to poison us. And some rather delicious sharp-tasting berries. At least, the Cat thought they'd be edible. He ate 'em and didn't get the trots but Cats can eat a lot that'd give us the green apple two-step.”

Kris paused, another trick coming to mind. She sat back
on her heels. “We got any natural holes anywhere? I mean, holes with floors so they wouldn't leak?”

“Why?”

“Well, they'd make a self-contained stew pot. Fill one with water, then drop in clean heated stones. That'd boil the water and whatever else you had in it.”

“It would?”

“I haven't done it, but the theory's sound. A pot's only something you can move around.”

“What heathen country did you get that from?”

Kris laughed. “The old Irish used to do that. I saw the places in the south of Ireland. Great tourist attractions but the guide swore that was what field workers used when they didn't want to trek all the way back to their homes.”

“Well, I never,” Sandy said and went off, cocking her head this way and that.

“Hey, gal, you made it up,” a cheerful voice said and Kris looked up from the animal she had just eviscerated to see Jay Greene making his way to her. He had a brace of avians in each hand. From the angle of their heads, their necks had been broken.

“Hi, Jay. Say, just how are these things being caught, or killed?”

“Snares work as well on this planet as any other,” he said, looking pleased. “Probably better. Fortunately for me, these fowls are stupider'n turkeys and will eat anything edible, especially ration bar crumbs.”

“You knew about snares?”

“‘Semper Paratus,' like the Boy Scouts used to say,” he said modestly. “I worked one out and Mitford showed us how to use a slingshot. A crack shot, too.” He was properly respectful. “Haven't got any elastic, but with a little practice and the right flick of the wrist, you can aim pretty accurate. The rocksquatters haven't got sense enough to be scared, so they sit there and die young! Hey, you're pretty good with that knife!”