The Survivors (16 page)

Twice he saw something white in the distance. Once it was the bones of another band of woods goats that had huddled together and frozen to death in some early blizzard of the past and once it was the bones of a dozen unicorns.

The nights grew chillier and the suns moved faster and faster to the south. The animals began to migrate, an almost imperceptible movement in the beginning but one that increased each day. The first frost came and the migration began in earnest. By the third day it was a hurrying tide.

Tip was strangely silent that day. He did not speak until the noon sun had cleared the cold, heavy mists of morning. When he spoke it was to give a message from Chiara:

“Howard … last report … Goldie is dying … pneumonia … ”

Goldie was Chiara’s mocker, his only means of communication—and there would be no way to tell him when they were turning back.

“Turn back today, Tony,” he said. “Steve and I will go on for a few days more.”

There was no answer and he said quickly, “Turn back—turn back! Acknowledge that, Tony.”

“Turning back … ” the acknowledgment came. “ … tried to save her … ”

The message stopped and there was a silence that Chiara’s mocker would never break again. He walked on, with Tip sitting very small and quiet on his shoulder. He had crossed another hill before Tip moved, to press up close to him the way mockers did when they were lonely and to hold tightly to him.

“What is it, Tip?” he asked.

“Goldie is dying,” Tip said. And then again, like a soft, sad whisper, “Goldie is dying … ”

“She was your mate … I’m sorry.”

Tip made a little whimpering sound, and the man reached up to stroke his silky side.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m sorry as hell, little fellow.”

*

*

*

For two days Tip sat lonely and silent on his shoulder, no longer interested in the new scenes nor any longer relieving the monotony with his chatter. He refused to eat until the morning of the third day.

By then the exodus of woods goats and unicorns had dwindled to almost nothing; the sky a leaden gray through which the sun could not be seen. That evening he saw what he was sure would be the last band of woods goats and shot one of them.

When he went to it he was almost afraid to believe what he saw.

The hair above its feet was red, discolored with the stain of iron-bearing clay. He examined it more closely and saw that the goat had apparently watered at a spring where the mud was material washed down from an iron-bearing vein or formation. It had done so fairly recently—there were still tiny particles of clay adhering to the hair. The wind stirred, cold and damp with its warning of an approaching storm. He looked to the north, where the evening had turned the gray clouds black, and called Schroeder:

“Steve—any luck?”

“None,” Schroeder answered.

“I just killed a goat,” he said. “It has iron stains on its legs it got at some spring farther north. I’m going on to try to find it. You can turn back in the morning.”

“No,” Schroeder objected. “I can angle over and catch up with you in a couple of days.”

“You’ll turn back in the morning,” he said. “I’m going to try to find this iron. But if I get caught by a blizzard it will be up to you to tell them at the caves that I found iron and to tell them where it is—you know the mockers can’t transmit that far.”

There was a short silence; then Schroeder said, “All right—I see. I’ll head south in the morning.”

Lake took a route the next day that would most likely be the one the woods goats had come down, stopping on each ridge top to study the country ahead of him through his binoculars. It was cloudy all day but at sunset the sun appeared very briefly, to send its last rays across the hills and redden them in mockery of the iron he sought.

Far ahead of him, small even through the glasses and made visible only because of the position of the sun, was a spot at the base of a hill that was redder than the sunset had made the other hills.

He was confident it would be the red clay he was searching for and he hurried on, not stopping until darkness made further progress impossible.

Tip slept inside his jacket, curled up against his chest, while the wind blew raw and cold all through the night. He was on his way again at the first touch of daylight, the sky darker than ever and the wind spinning random flakes of snow before him.

He stopped to look back to the south once, thinking, If I turn back now I might get out before the blizzard hits.

Then the other thought came: These hills all look the same. If I don’t go to the iron while I’m this close and know where it is, it might be years before I or anyone else could find it again. He went on and did not look back again for the rest of the day.

By midafternoon the higher hills around him were hidden under the clouds and the snow was coming harder and faster as the wind drove the flakes against his face. It began to snow with a heaviness that brought a half darkness when he came finally to the hill he had seen through the glasses.

A spring was at the base of it, bubbling out of red clay. Above it the red dirt led a hundred feet to a dike of granite and stopped. He hurried up the hillside that was rapidly whitening with snow and saw the vein.

It set against the dike, short and narrow but red-black with the iron it contained. He picked up a piece and felt the weight of it. It was heavy—it was pure iron oxide. He called Schroeder and asked, “Are you down out of the high hills, Steve?”

“I’m in the lower ones,” Schroeder answered, the words coming a little muffled from where Tip lay inside his jacket. “It looks black as hell up your way.”

“I found the iron, Steve. Listen—these are the nearest to landmarks I can give you … ”

When he had finished he said, “That’s the best I can do. You can’t see the red clay except when the sun is low in the southwest but I’m going to build a monument on top of the hill to find it by.”

“About you, Howard,” Steve asked, “what are your chances?”

The wind was rising to a high moaning around the ledges of the granite dike and the vein was already invisible under the snow.

“It doesn’t look like they’re very good,” he answered. “You’ll probably be leader when you come back next spring—I told the council I wanted that if anything happened to me. Keep things going the way I would have. Now—I’ll have to hurry to get the monument built in time.”

“All right,” Schroeder said. “So long, Howard … good luck.”

He climbed to the top of the hill and saw boulders there he could use to build the monument. They were large—he might crush Tip against his chest in picking them up—and he took off his jacket, to wrap it around Tip and leave him lying on the ground. He worked until he was panting for breath, the wind driving the snow harder and harder against him until the cold seemed to have penetrated to the bone. He worked until the monument was too high for his numb hands to lift any more boulders to its top. By then it was tall enough that it should serve its purpose.

He went back to look for Tip, the ground already four inches deep in snow and the darkness almost complete.

“Tip,” he called. “Tip—Tip—” He walked back and forth across the hillside in the area where he thought he had left him, stumbling over rocks buried in the snow and invisible in the darkness, calling against the wind and thinking,
I can’t leave him to die alone here
. Then, from a bulge he had not seen in the snow under him, there came a frightened, lonely wail:

“
Tip cold—Tip cold—
”

He raked the snow off his jacket and unwrapped Tip, to put him inside his shirt next to his bare skin. Tip’s paws were like ice and he was shivering violently, the first symptom of the pneumonia that killed mockers so quickly.

Tip coughed, a wrenching, rattling little sound, and whimpered, “Hurt—hurt—”

“I know,” he said. “Your lungs hurt—damn it to hell, I wish I could have let you go home with Steve.”

He put on the cold jacket and went down the hill. There was nothing with which he could make a fire—only the short half-green grass, already buried under the snow. He turned south at the bottom of the hill, determining the direction by the wind, and began the stubborn march southward that could have but one ending.

He walked until his cold-numbed legs would carry him no farther. The snow was warm when he fell for the last time; warm and soft as it drifted over him, and his mind was clouded with a pleasant drowsiness.

This isn’t so bad, he thought, and there was something like surprise through the drowsiness. I can’t regret doing what I had to do—doing it the best I could …

Tip was no longer coughing and the thought of Tip was the only one that was tinged with regret:
I hope he wasn’t still hurting when he died
.

He felt Tip stir very feebly against his chest then, and he did not know if it was his imagination or if in that last dreamlike state it was Tip’s thought that came to him; warm and close and reassuring him:

No hurt no cold now—all right now—we sleep now …

«
^
»

When spring came Steve Schroeder was leader, as Lake had wanted. It was a duty and a responsibility that would be under circumstances different from those of any of the leaders before him. The grim fight was over for a while. They were adapted and increasing in number; going into Big Summer and into a renascence that would last for fifty years. They would have half a century in which to develop their environment to its fullest extent. Then Big Fall would come, to destroy all they had accomplished, and the Gerns would come, to destroy them. It was his job to make certain that by then they would be stronger than either.

*

*

*

He went north with nine men as soon as the weather permitted. It was hard to retrace the route of the summer before, without compasses, among the hills which looked all the same as far as their binoculars could reach, and it was summer when they saw the hill with the monument. They found Lake’s bones a few miles south of it, scattered by the scavengers as were the little bones of his mocker. They buried them together, man and mocker, and went silently on toward the hill.

They had brought a little hand-cranked diamond drill with them to bore holes in the hard granite and black powder for blasting. They mined the vein, sorting out the ore from the waste and saving every particle.

The vein was narrow at the surface and pinched very rapidly. At a depth of six feet it was a knife-blade seam; at ten feet it was only a red discoloration in the bottom of their shaft.

“That seems to be all of it,” he said to the others. “We’ll send men up here next year to go deeper and farther along its course but I have an idea we’ve just mined all of the only iron vein on Ragnarok. It will be enough for our purpose.”

They sewed the ore in strong rawhide sacks and then prospected, without success, until it was time for the last unicorn band to pass by on its way south. They trapped ten unicorns and hobbled their legs, with other ropes reaching from horn to hind leg on each side to prevent them from swinging back their heads or even lifting them high.

They had expected the capture and hobbling of the unicorns to be a difficult and dangerous job and it was. But when they were finished the unicorns were helpless. They could move awkwardly about to graze but they could not charge. They could only stand with lowered heads and fume and rumble.

The ore sacks were tied on one frosty morning and the men mounted. The horn-leg ropes were loosened so the unicorns could travel, and the unicorns went into a frenzy of bucking and rearing, squealing with rage as they tried to impale their riders.

The short spears, stabbing at the sensitive spot behind the jawbones of the unicorns, thwarted the backward flung heads and the unicorns were slowly forced into submission. The last one conceded temporary defeat and the long journey to the south started, the unicorns going in the run that they could maintain hour after hour.

Each day they pushed the unicorns until they were too weary to fight at night. Each morning, rested, the unicorns resumed the battle. It became an expected routine for both unicorns and men.

The unicorns were released when the ore was unloaded at the foot of the hill before the caves and Schroeder went to the new waterwheel, where the new generator was already in place. There George Craig told him of the unexpected obstacle that had appeared.

“We’re stuck,” George said. “The aluminum ore isn’t what we thought it would be. It’s scarce and very low grade, of such a complex nature that we can’t refine it to the oxide with what we have to work with on Ragnarok.”

“Have you produced any aluminum oxide at all?”

“A little. We might have enough for the wire in a hundred years if we kept at it hard enough.”

“What else do you need—was there enough cryolite?” he asked.