"That's a what-you-call-it there? Jesus! Look at that mother," she cried, as the first of the airsharks expertly ripped at the bag of a huge female, slipped past, turned end-for-end, and reversed itself. It came back ten meters lower to catch the deflated balloonist as it fell, braying its death song. "That's a fucking
Immelmann
that thing just did! Nobody's done that since World War One!"
"This isn't a performance, damn it! They're dying!" Two more of the predators had struck, and two more balloonists were caught farther down the shore. But at least it was not Charlie's flock. None of those victims were friends. "See that stuff coming out of the female?" he asked. "Those are her eggs. They're long spider-silk kind of things. They'll float around forever, but they won't be fertilized because none of the males have—"
"Fuck her eggs, little buddy. I'm rooting for the shark! What a killing machine! Shit, Danny, I can see why things are going badly here. You people picked the wrong allies. We ought to team up with the sharks!"
Dalehouse was scandalized. "They're animals! They're not even intelligent!"
"Show me a professor," she said, "and I'll show you a fart-brain. How intelligent do you have to be to fight?"
"Christ. The balloonists are our friends. We've got them doing surveillance for us. The
ha'aye'i
would never do that. Now you want us to line up with their natural enemies?"
"Well, I can see there might be problems." She stared wistfully at the
ha'aye'i,
which had ripped away the inedible bag and was now feasting on the soft parts of its still-living prey. "Too bad," she said philosophically. She stepped back toward Danny, still watching the spectacle, and took his hand.
"You're really sure about this? There's no way to persuade our gooks to get along with the sharks?"
"No way at all! Even if you could somehow reach the
ha 'aye'i
to explain what you wanted. The
ha'aye'i
don't even sing. That's the whole meaning of life to balloonists. They could never deal with creatures that didn't sing."
"Oh?" Margie looked at him thoughtfully. Then she released his hand and sat down again, leaning back on her arms and looking up at him. "Tell me, Danny, would you like to make me sing?"
He stared at her. Why, she was sexually excited by watching the slaughter!
He glanced at the top of the bluff, where the back of the head of the orderly was motionless in sight. "Maybe we'd better be getting back," he said.
"What's the matter, sweetie? Don't like having an audience? Tinka won't bother us."
"I don't care about her."
"Then what?" she asked cheerfully. "Hey, I bet I can guess. You're hassled about the colonel."
"Tree? He's got nothing to do with me."
"Aw, come off it, sweets." She patted the ground beside her. After a moment, he sat down, not very close. "You think I've been getting it on with old Nguyen the Tryin'."
"No. I don't think it, I know it."
"And suppose I have?"
"Your business," he said promptly. "I'm not saying it isn't. Maybe I've got some sexist-pig notions, but—"
"But no maybe. You fucking well do, Danny-boy." She was smiling without softness now.
He shrugged. "Let's go back, colonel."
"Let's stay here. And," she said, "I've got the rank on you, and when a colonel says 'let's' to a captain, what it means is
do it.
"
There was no more stirring in Dalehouse's groin; he was both angry and amused at his own anger. He said, "Let's get this straight. Are you ordering me to fuck you?"
"No. Not at the moment, dear boy." She grinned. "I hardly ever order officers to fuck me. Only enlisted men, and very seldom them, because it's bad for discipline."
"Are you saying the colonel ordered you to fuck him?"
"Danny dear," she said patiently, "first, he couldn't—I've got the rank. Second, he wouldn't have had to. I'd fuck Guy any time. For any reason. Because he's technically my superior officer and I don't want to rub in the fact that I'm the one who's commanding. Because it'd make things go smoother on the mission. Because it's interesting to get it on with somebody half my size. I'd fuck a Krinpit if it would help the war effort, only I don't know how we'd bring up the kids. But," she said, "a girl's entitled to a certain amount of non-goal-oriented recreation, too, and Danny, I really have the fondest memories of you from last year in Bulgaria."
Fully relaxed, she rummaged under her for her clothes and pulled out another joint.
Dalehouse watched her lighting it. Her body was tanned over every inch—no bikini marks—and looking a lot better than the fishbelly white that came after a while on Jem. She scratched between the crease that hid her navel and her pale pubic hair, exhaled peacefully, and passed him the joint. The thing was, Dalehouse conceded to himself, that he really had the fondest memories of her last year in Bulgaria, too, and it did not seem to matter that he also had some bad memories.
"You know the thing that gets me about you?" he asked. "You make me laugh about a hundred different ways. Lean over this way, will you?"
When they had used each other up, they rested for a moment. Then Margie jumped up and dashed into the water again. Dalehouse followed; they splashed and roared; and as they came out he was astonished to discover that suddenly he didn't feel quite used up anymore. But Margie was calling up the bluff, "Tinka! Time hack!"
"Thirteen twenty hours, ma'am!"
Margie slipped into her fatigues quickly and leaned over to kiss Dalehouse as he was standing with one leg in his pants. "Time to get back. I've got a busy afternoon before the dance, and Danny, I'd appreciate it if you'd do something for me."
"What's that?"
"Teach Tinka how to do that balloon thing this afternoon."
"Why?"
"I want her to run an errand for me. It's important."
He considered. "I can get her started, anyway. But I don't know if she can learn it all in a few hours."
"She learns fast, I promise. Come on—I'll race you back!"
They ran the hundred meters. Marge got off first, but by the time the outpost was in sight Dalehouse had caught up with her. As he passed she reached out and took his hand and pulled him back to a walk. "Thanks for the exercise," she panted.
"Which exercise—swimming, running, or fucking?"
"All of them, dear Danny." She breathed hard, and then, just before they got within earshot of the perimeter guards she halted him. "One thing I ought to mention to you," she said.
"What's that?"
"I just want to set the record straight. With Nguyen Tree I'm fucking. With you I was making love."
Twelve on perimeter guard, two in sick bay, three in the comm shack, and eight more on the other twenty-four-hour details that always had to be manned: that left over a hundred and twenty people in the Food camp, and nearly every one of them was at the dance. Marge congratulated herself as she flung through a hora. It was a big success. When the dance ended and the rhythm changed to something Latin, she shook off the three men who came toward her. "I've got to sit this one out and catch my breath," she said. "After the next number I make my little speech. Then you're all on."
She retreated behind the little stand and sat cross-legged on the ground, breathing deeply. Marge Menninger's parents had endowed her with good genes, and she had taken care of the equipment; after a long day and a solid hour's dancing she was not tired and her wits were all about her. And the day had been not only long but good. She had got the camp over their scare about the loss of the three people by treating it as if it didn't matter. She had brought them all together in the dance. She had laid the groundwork for Tinka's little mission, organized an effective perimeter guard, broken the back of the job of unloading and stowing cargo, and begun six other tasks equally important. And she had got it on with Dan Dalehouse, on terms of her own making but obviously acceptable to him. That was a personal matter, but not unimportant. Marge was careful to keep an eye on long-range prospects. And as a possible permanent future pair, if permanent pairing turned out to be the way things were going to go on Jem, Dalehouse was the best bet she had yet identified.
It was Marge Menninger's conviction, recent but certain, that this job was what she had been born for. The important thing was to do it the right way, which was her own way, which had to be laid out from day one. No false starts. A happy camp —plenty of work to keep them busy and plenty of time to enjoy themselves. And a productive camp. Jem belonged to her and hers, and now they had it.
While she was waiting for the cha-cha to end she considered the next day. Ship One would be empty, and a team could be started on separating the two halves and moving them into position in the perimeter. Dalehouse or Kappelyushnikov— which? the Russian, she decided—Kappelyushnikov could be briefed on Tinka's mission, or at least enough of it so that he could escort her partway to the Greasy camp. A work team could be organized to start putting up poles for the farm plot. She would meet and learn to know at least six of the advance party; in two weeks, she should know everything she had to know about everyone in the camp. Orders would be cut naming Guy Tree as her G-l and Santangelo as G-2. The others she would wait on; there might be people she hadn't met yet who should have the jobs. And, if things went well, during the three hours she allowed herself for a midday break, she would go for a walk in the woods. If you could call them woods. They needed to be dealt with too: Knock down some of those skungy ferms, scoop out some farm ponds to drain that soggy swamp. It would work—all they needed was a couple of bulldozers. Which reminded her that she needed at least to make a first approximation of a requisition list for the next shipment from Earth. That couldn't wait. With all the fuss the civilians were kicking up, Marge Menninger wasn't sure how many more shipments there would be. She already knew a number of goodies she wanted, but the old-timers would probably think of more. So she would need to talk to some of the old-timers. Morrissey, Krivitin, Kappelyushnikov—she would fill in the others later.
The smell of pot from beyond the stand pleased her. She thought of lighting up before getting up to make her speech —it was another way of showing her personal style. But it had been less than half an hour since the last one, and Marge knew her tolerances exactly; it might make her fuzzy.
The cha-cha ended, and the girl at the tape machine, looking toward Margie, switched it off. Marge nodded and climbed the stand.
The laughter and buzz dwindled as the hundred-odd people turned to face her. She smiled out at them for a moment, waiting for silence. They looked exactly like the plebes at West Point had looked, exactly like the audience in the Senate hearing room, like every audience she had ever faced. Marge was in touch with her audiences; she could always make them like her, and for that reason she liked them.
"Welcome to the first weekly Food Bloc Expedition Saturday Night Dance. I'm Colonel Marjorie Menninger, USA, and I'm your camp commander. Some of us already know each other pretty well by now. The rest of us are going to get to know each other very well very soon, because when you come right down to it we don't have much choice, do we? I'm not worried about that, and I hope you're not. We are a pretty select bunch." She allowed her gaze to drift past the audience to the edge of the lighted area, where two of her grunts were holding another while he vomited, and added, "Although you might not know that at first." A small laugh, but genuine. "So let's start getting to know each other. Guy? Saint? Where are you?" She introduced Tree and Santangelo as they stood forth. "Now Vince Cudahy—are you there? Vince is a mathematician, but he's also our chaplain. He used to teach at Fordham, but he's agreed to be nondenominational for the purposes of this mission. So if any of you want to get married, Vince is authorized to do it." Small chuckle. "He's a little old-fashioned, so he'd prefer it if you're of different sexes." Somewhat larger laugh, but a little questioning note in it. "And in case you do," she went on, "or even if you don't, you ought to meet Chiche Arkashvili. Cheech? There she is, our medical officer. Try not to get sick over the next twenty-four hours, because she's still setting up. But then she'll be ready for business, and back home in Ordzhonikidze her specialty was obstetrics." No laugh at all this time. She hadn't expected one. She gave them a moment to draw the logical conclusion and then pressed it home. "As you can see, we're planning a permanent base, and I'm planning to make this the best duty any of you have ever had so that a lot of you will want to re-up and stay here. And if you do—and if any of you take seriously what I've just been talking about and decide to settle down and have a family on Jem, I'm offering a special prize. A thousand petrobucks for the first baby born in our camp— provided you name it Marjorie, after me." She waited a beat and added, "Two thousand if it's a boy." She got the laugh she wanted and closed it out. "Now on with the dance." And as the music started she jumped off the platform, grabbed the first man in reach, and started them all going.
For the next half-hour Marge Menninger played hostess, at which she was very, very good. She danced with the men who didn't much dance, kept the music going, made sure the drinks kept coming. What she wanted was for everybody to have a good time. The next day was time enough for them to start thinking about permanent colonies and how much choice they would be likely to have about extending their stay. When chance permitted she got a word in with the people who had known what she was going to say, asking how they thought it had gone. It had seemed to go well. It made her feel good, and she found she was really enjoying the party. She drank with the drinkers, smoked with the dopers, and danced with everyone. It was safe enough now. When the time came to shut the dance down Tinka would let her know, and meanwhile Tinka would keep an eye on her colonel.
Coming back from the brand-new latrine, Marge paused to enjoy the sight of her people having fun. It was going to be all right! They really were a good bunch, hand-selected, fit, well trained. Whatever she had said to anyone else, in a secret, inside part of her heart Marge had felt a small but unsettling fear that her first really independent command might take qualities she hadn't known she would need. So far, not. So far, everything was going precisely as she had planned, according to the priorities she had laid out in her own mind. Priority 1, safeguard the integrity of the unit. And it was safeguarded; she could see the perimeter guards in regular patrol, a little disgruntled at missing the dance but carrying out their orders meticulously. Priority 2, accomplish the mission assigned. And that was well on the way. Priority 3, subject to accomplishing 1 and 2, make it a busy and happy camp. And that looked good, too.