The Loafers of Refuge (8 page)

Kronstadt gave a convulsive cry, staggered where he stood, turned in an odd, jerky way, like a marionette propelled by strings, and started for his tractor. He was walking directly towards the whirling blade that had just downed the breshwahr.

A Controller handled animals by projecting strong images, influencing rather than commanding. Yet it was apparent these valley Loafers had somehow discovered how to link minds for extra power and that they were capable of actually taking over another man’s body.

Carey hesitated, while precious seconds passed. He could stop the three Controllers by physically assaulting them while their attention was so completely diverted, but to do so would create an ill will that would be long in dying. At the same time he could not permit them to kill Kronstadt, not only because he was a fellow Earthman and farmer but because the Controlling powers of the Loafers were too well known. They would have to answer for their actions, and the results would be catastrophic for Loafer-Colonist relationships. Legally, Kronstadt had acted completely within his rights.

“Hold! Instead of one life I will give you many,” Carey said loudly, raising his hand for attention. “I can make the breshwahr live again!”

Kronstadt took two more jerky steps, perilously close to the whirling blade. Carey tensed himself to lunge at the three Controllers, though he had waited almost too long, and then Kronstadt stopped. He swayed visibly for a moment, then collapsed in a sobbing heap on the ground.

There was a faint look of reproach on the Councillor’s face as he met Carey’s eyes. The younger man lowered his own in embarrassment. For a moment he had forgotten that he was dealing with Loafers, had ascribed to them the Earthman’s emotion of hate, an Earthman’s desire for vengeance. To the Loafers life was a sacred thing, never taken unnecessarily. They had not intended to kill Kronstadt, only frighten him.
And judging by his hysterical weeping they had succeeded in a way he would never forget.

Two hours later, when Harper guided the flitter to a stop in the field nearest the sacred grove, Kronstadt had recovered his self-control and gone. The breshwahr had stopped bleeding and was already turning brown. Evidently its circulation system and life processes were many times faster than those of a normal plant. And the Head Councillor, whose feebleness had caused him to fall behind his companions, had joined the other Loafers and been brought up to date on developments.

Doreen was carrying a thick paper bag when she and Harper joined the others. She offered it to Carey with a happy grin, and he opened it and examined the contents. It was full of a white, gritty substance that resembled fine salt.

“This had better be it, Sis,” said Carey fervently as he led them to the nearest breshwahr and began to dig with Harper’s shovel. He soon found a tender rootlet leading from the tree towards the peanut field. He sprinkled it lightly with the salt and then replaced the dirt. “Get in touch with it, Timmy, and see if we’ve guessed right,” he suggested.

“But it takes hours—” Doreen started to protest, and then fell silent. It took hours for an ordinary tree’s metabolism to examine and accept or reject the material its roots encountered. This would not be true for the breshwahr. And she found herself wondering just how the intelligent tree differed from its fellow plants in physical structure. It would be interesting to examine the fallen giant, if she could get permission.

Timmy lay flat again and closed his eyes. This time the contact seemed to be much easier. Apparently communing with plants, whose slower rate of doing everything, including thinking, made, them hard to contact, got easier as you grew accustomed to it.

Timmy lay still for only a moment, then rose to his feet. “That is the salt, Carey.”

“Doreen, what is it? How did you find it?” demanded Carey.

Doreen smiled happily. “It wasn’t hard, once Sam made us realize it almost had to be in the fertilizer. As you know, we mine calcium fluorophosphate, or rock phosphate as it’s commonly called, and treat it with imported sulphuric acid to break it down to monocalcium phosphate and calcium sulphate, which are soluble in water. We’ve found through trial and error that river-bottom land will yield a much better first peanut crop if the land is dusted with superphosphate before you plant, and that’s why the handbook recommends it. At the fertilizer plant we found that Refuge is low in the element boron. The native plants have learned to get along without boron salts, but peanuts, and any other crop from Earth, require a trace of boric acid for good growth and good seed germination. So a small quantity of borax is added to the rock phosphate and the sulphuric acid acts on it to form the boric acid you need. This white powder? Just plain, ordinary borax, one of the more common minerals of Earth. The fertilizer plant imports it through the transmitter by the ton.”

The conversation had been in English, and Carey translated for the benefit of the Loafers. “We have found that which the breshwahr needs for the growth of strong seeds, that which was once abundant in this valley and is no more, the salt which caused the breshwahr to learn to think even as you and I.”

The Loafers, who had watched the trial with intent and earnest faces, broke into happy laughter. There were tears of joy in the old Head Councillor’s eyes when he said, “That is good, very good. If you will give us this we will feed it to the breshwahr as it is needed.”

Carey translated swiftly for the Harpers, and Sam nodded his head in agreement. Carey turned back to the old man. “We will give the Head Councillor all of that salt, which is called borax, that we have with us, and as much as the trees shall need for all time to come, if the breshwahr will withdraw their roots from the peanut field and permit the small plants
to live. In addition, I ask that the-farmer-who-killed-a-breshwahr receive no further punishment.”

The old man closed his eyes for a brief moment, and then said, “If the salts are given to the trees in abundance there will be no need to rob the little plants, and the farmer has been punished enough. It shall be as you say.”

“That is good. And in return I shall ask the Council of the Hairless Ones to restore all land on which the intelligent breshwahr live to the Loafers, that they may continue the trust they have maintained so well through the generations.”

“That is as it should be. And to prove our hearts are good we will show the strangers who have moved here how to grow crops.” The old man’s face twisted in gentle irony. “They have much to learn of plants.” He looked long and hard into the face of Sam Harper, and one worn old hand reached out to touch him on the shoulder. Then the Head Councillor turned away and hobbled into the woods.

“And that ends another source of possible trouble between Loafers and Colonists,” said Carey thoughtfully as he lifted the flitter into the air.

“And think what your friends will learn about growing plants!” said Timmy with a smile.

“And look at what I learned about being a Controller!” said Doreen happily. “Just to think that someday I’ll be able to talk to a
tree
! It’s almost more than I can imagine.”

“We’ve been on this planet nineteen years, and we still have only scratched the surface,” said Carey soberly. “Tomorrow we may discover something so revolutionary the trees will seem commonplace.”

“Yes, and I can hardly wait for tomorrow to come,” replied Doreen. Her hand crept out and into Timmy’s, and they smiled at each other in a way that indicated they were expecting wonders to come in which Carey would not be a participant.

M
ICKA FELT THE
strong, comforting hand of her mother on her shoulder, gently urging her forward, felt the tall, reassuring presence of her cousin Timmy at her side, but still she hesitated. She had seldom been inside the odd buildings the smooth-faced Earthpeople kept putting up in such large numbers, and they frightened her. Her delicate features, half-hidden behind their covering of fine brown hair, showed the depths of her fear.

The small girl turned suddenly and looked up at her mother. “I do not want to go to the Hairless Ones’ school!”

Tharee knelt swiftly, opening the wirtl-leaf cloak that was her only garment and gathering her daughter to her hairy breast. “You must, little one. Your cousin Timmy, and your uncle the Head Councillor, are depending on you and the other children.”

Micka, torn between the duty she owed her people and the pressing fear of the oddly squarish building with its harsh straight lines, so unlike the rounded shape of her beautiful waquil-home, started to cry. Timmy knelt by her side, his lean brown face compassionate. Her mother patted her shoulder tenderly, and when the tears came she gently wiped them away with a calloused hand. When she saw that the child could not be comforted Tharee closed her eyes and projected:
Warmth-Comfort-Peace … Play-Happiness-Love …
The warm flowing tide came rushing into the young mind like an avalanche, burying and hiding the fear, the sense of strangeness. The strong tower of her mother’s strength was there—irrevocable, as solid and enduring as the world beneath her feet. The tears ceased, and for a moment more Micka basked in that warm golden glow … It was abruptly withdrawn, and
Tharee raised her dark head, then rose lithely to her feet.

“I am always there, little daughter. You have only to call loudly enough and I will hear.”

Timmy was smiling at her encouragingly. The little girl nodded, subdued, and turned back towards the schoolhouse. The ugly children of the Hairless Ones would be inside the ugly building. She would feel their dislike, the peeping, prying minds, but her mother was always there, only a thought away. She would endure.

A boy of about seven appeared from nowhere and rushed past them, stopped as abruptly as he had appeared, and waited as they walked past. His bright brown eyes never left Mieka’s face. After they had passed him he broke into a hard run and reached the door of the small schoolhouse ahead of them.

The three Loafers were among the first to arrive, but the two teachers were already there. The younger one, Marge Anders, a tall, stout, rather pretty blonde, had arrived on Refuge as a small child with the first wave of colonists twenty years ago, and during the years when relations between the Earth colonists and the native Loafers had been cordial she had played with the Loafer children frequently. The other teacher was Miss Kaymar, a quiet, colourless woman who was desperately trying to snare a husband before the remainder of her fading looks yielded to middle-age.

Marge stepped forward, smiling, to welcome Micka and speak to Tharee and Timmy. Before she could say a word the door opened violently inward and a heavy, scowling farmer, holding a small tow-headed boy by the hand, marched purposefully into the large room.

His voice was loud and harsh, and he made no attempt to keep it down, “I heard those stinkin’ Loafers were going to try to put some of their unclothed brats in our school this year. Well, I’m here to tell you I won’t stand for it! I came down with my boy this time to see for myself, and I have. Either that hairy thing goes or I don’t let my son start.”

Timmy, who understood English quite well, turned and stared the burly man in the face. His rangy form stiffened and he stood a little taller, as befitted the son of the Head
Councillor. He started for the farmer, but Marge moved swiftly forward and stepped between them.

“Mr Issakson, you know very well it’s against the law to keep children out of school until they’re eighteen. And you also know Central Government adopted a resolution last winter permitting full and equal education for any Loafers who wished to attend our school. There will be three Loafer children besides Micka in our beginning grade this year, and I’m afraid there’s nothing whatever you can do about it. Now please be sensible and let Jay come to school.”

“And if I don’t?” asked Issakson, his voice shaking the walls.

Marge’s face turned white before the obvious challenge, and she stiffened. She folded her arms across her heavy breasts, took a deep breath and said firmly, “The law states that I must inform the District Administrator of any known delinquents. I’ll do so. He in turn will file a request with the Security Section, and one of them will be out to see you. If you still refuse to let Jay come to school charges will be filed against you and you will be arrested.”

“And then I’ll be brought before a jury and tried, won’t I? And that jury will be made of all my friends and neighbours, won’t it? And do you think they’re going to fine me, or put me on government labour, when they feel just like I do? No, Miss Smarty, I don’t have anything to worry about. But you do.” He thrust his heavy head forward, until their faces were only inches apart. “I’m starting a petition today to have you sacked! We don’t need your type in this school, Earth education or not!”

Issakson turned and stomped out of the room, dragging Jay behind him. As they reached the door little Jay glanced back at them and made an ugly face.

Marge stared after them, her plump face a mixture of anger and despair. Issakson was not making idle threats. It might well be that if he could get enough signatures—and the way feelings were flaring all over the Refuge township he probably could—he might have her dismissed. Not that the job mattered so much to her, but she was the only teacher in the area who had been back to Earth and was familiar with the
new technique of automatic memory retention that was scoring such gains on the basic problem of giving a child the tools with which to learn. If she were dismissed this whole integration experiment might end in failure, and they would never know the true mental capabilities of the Loafers.

“What’s wrong with old man Issakson?” asked a cheerful voice, and Carey Sheldon’s broad young shoulders filled the doorway. Micka, recognizing a friend, ran to him with a squeal of pleasure, and Carey picked up the small form and walked to the little group.

“I expect I can answer my own question,” continued Carey, smiling. “The old boy was a little upset to find Micka here.”

“That’s putting it very mildly,” said Marge grimly. She was three years older than Carey Sheldon’s eighteen, but they had known each other before she returned to Earth for her degree. The population of this bustling agricultural world had grown in her absence, building slowly but steadily with the twice-yearly shiploads of colonists, more swiftly from their own high birthrate. Providing schools and the other services of government for the never-ending progression was a constant struggle. Fortunately for the educational system the number of children was comparatively small. On the infrequent occasions when the members of a Called One’s family chose to accompany him the children came, but if the family was split up the children usually remained on Earth.